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A TALE OF MODEKN BLACK ART. 



D FOR A VICTIM.” 


Thrilling Story of Love and Mysticism. 


ST U A.RT CUMBBRTA^NU, 

Thought Reader, Occultist and Psychologist. 


♦ 


J. S. OGILVIE, PUBLISHER, 57 Rose St., New York ; 182 Wabash Ave., Chicago. 



THE RED COVER SERIES, No. 41. Issued Quarterly. Subscription Price, $1.00 per Year. June, 1889. Extra. 

Entered at New York Post-Office as Second-class matter. 



Ladies Borne Gompaoioti. 

A PRACTICAL HOUSEHOLD JOURNAL. 



For 


Now in its 16th year, well established, tried and true as at- 
tested by a constituency of over Three Hundred Thousand 
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amount of reading* matter, etc., to 
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cents a copy, or $4.00 a year. 

The Ladies Home Companion is beautifully 
illustrated, printed on tine, cream-tinted 
paper, and has a more brilliant array of con- 
tributors than ever before, consisting of 

Eight Regular Editors and 
Scores of Eminent Writers, 

Whose facile pens will furnish Sliort 
anil Coiitinn<Kl Storiei^ of absorbing 
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hold economy that can possibly come 
within the good housewife’s province 
will be ably treated. 

PT? A rTTP A T This depart 

mentis a well- 

H0USEKEEPmG.Kif“f-‘; 

tions for every branch of howsekeepiiig, in- 
eluding a large variety of tested recipes, and 
how to prepare them at the least expense, in 
dainty and appetizing forms ; also, bints for 
table decorations, methods of work, etc. ’ 

^ ^ -s WHAT TO WEAR AND HOW TO MAKE IT. 

X AOJn.X\/Xv Artistic illustrations and descriptions of, with the newest 
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and other garments, with directions that enable one to dress well and ecHuiornicallv. 
IJi A V TUOPTT These departments give elegant ilbisl rations and 
X JnLm V i W V/XvXx* plain directions showing bow to make all kinds of 
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orating furniture, curtains, etc. 

TWrprjhTTx^U Q find the portion devoted to them invalnable, and filled with a 
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OCCUPATIONS FOR WOMEN. 

in reference to those things that wdves, mothers and siTigle women are doing toearr 
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Most Fascinating Ladies Paper Published. 

ETIQUETTE at home and abroad, at the table and on the street, at public 
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and ceremonies of good society, letter writing, good manners, the art of con- 
versing well, accomplishments, home training. 

So popular have our publications become that more than a million people read them regularly. 

Hention COMPANION, Philadelphia, Pa, 


A TALE OF MODERN BLACK ART. 


“MARKED FOR A VICTIM.” 

^ SrSrUnttfl Stors ot Hobe atntr J^^stCcCsnt* 

BY 

STUART CUMBERLAND, 

Thought Reader^ Occultist^ and Psychologist 


[From the New York ** World,” by arrangement.] 


Copyright ^ 1889, by J. S. Ogilvie. 


J. S. OGILVIE, PUBLISHER, 

57 Rose Street, New York; 182 Wabash Avenue, Chicago. 


PRICE AND STYLE UNIFORM WITH THIS BOOK 


,29. Adventures of Miss Volney, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

,28. One Hundred Prize Dinners; or How to Provide a Dinner for four 
persons for $1.00. 

27. Gladstone’s Criticism of Robert Elsmere. Price, 10 cents. 

26. A Close Call, by J. L. Berry. 

25. From Farm Boy to Senator, by Horatio Alger, Jr. 

,24. The Grand Wonder Collection of Valuable Information. Double 
Number. Price, 50 cents. 

.23. Mystery of St. James Park, by John Boutelle-Burton. 

.22. Madame Midas, by author of “Mystery of a Hansom Cab.’* 

.21. A Double Love, by Olive P. Fairchild. 

.20. In Danger; or Life in New York, by Howe & Hummel. 

.19. Playing With Fire, by Gay Parker. 

.18. Mr. Perkins of New Jersey, by Gay Parker. 

.17. The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, by Fergus W. Hume. 

.16. Old Si’s Humorous Sketches, by Sam Small. 

.15. Lost and Found ; or Billy’s Mother, by Mrs. A. Elmore. 

.14. Perdita, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

.13. Adventures of a Bashful Irishman. 

.12. Married in Haste, by “Author of Dora Thorne.” 

.11 . Hilda’s Lover, by “Author of Dora Thorne. ” 

.10. At War With Herself, by “Author of Dora Thorne.’* 

..9. Only a Woman’s Heart, by E. A. Young. 

. .8. A Mental Struggle, by The Duchess. 

..7. A Wife’s Honor, by E. A. Young. 

.- 6 . A Midnight Wedding, by M. A. Holmes. 

..5. Woman against Woman, by M. A. Holmes. 

-.4. A Woman’s Vengeance, by M. A. Holmes. 

-.3. A Crimson Stain, by Annie Bradshaw. 

..2. A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey. 

..1 . The Haunted Chamber, by The Duchess. 


Mailed on receipt of price by 


“MARKED FOR A VICTIM/’ 


PROLOGUE. 

A SHADOW OVER A BIRTHDAY. 

At the close of a delicious day in a large 
room of a handsome London house Miss Evelyn 
Hardcastle was reclining in an immense chair 
upon which cushions of down had been thrown. 
She was a fitting inmate for the room in which 
she was placed. Soft silken fabrics hung on 
the walls. The entrances to the room were 
concealed by portieres of the most richly em- 
broidered stuffs. The thick carpet muffled 
every sound and felt like moss to the feet of 
one who trod upon it. Quaint old furniture 
graced the room. Chairs and cabinets of quar- 
tered oak old enough to be black with age, 
beautiful specimens of carved teak wood and 
rare bits of inlaid work — all these were about 
in profusion. 

It was a bower of luxury, and the beautiful 


4 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


young woman who almost lay at length upon 
the downy cushion of the huge chair was the 
fitting mistress of such luxury in her surround- 
ings. Her features were as delicate and as ex- 
quisitely turned as those of one of Can-ova’s 
masterpieces. The clear white forehead and 
the mass of golden hair that clustered about it, 
the dainty mouth with its subtle curves and 



HE NOTED THE PECULIARITY OF HER EYES. 

ruddy lips, and the transparent skin of pure 
white suffused into the most delicate pink made 
her an entrancing object. 

But her eyes were the most striking feature 
of her lovely face. Large, lustrous and of the 
deepest blue, they peeped from beneath the 
long silken lashes like jewels. There was 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


5 


something peculiar in those eyes. The lids 
were but little parted and the irises were so 
large that they seemed almost black. They 
were as brilliant as polished agate, and gleamed 
from the fringes of her superb lashes like stars 
piercing some cloud. 

Her lips were parted. She had let her book 
fall to the ground. It was a volume of love 
poems, intense and almost Oriental in their 
passionate imagery. They seemed to have 
steeped her in a languorous glow, for there was 
a voluptuous yielding in her beautiful form that 
sank, half buried, into the light down cushions, 
while her face warmed with the pensive glow 
of her happy thoughts. 

They were thoughts that a lover would have 
been glad to learn were for himself. In her 
Grecian beauty she seemed made for love and 
brightness and happy years — years that should 
deal lightly with her smooth, fair brow, her 
damask cheek and the glittering brilliancy of 
her glorious eyes. Life with bounding health 
and all the glamour of happy love seemed the 
prerogative of such a dower of loveliness as hers. 

At last, she heaved a slight sigh, and a smile 
stole to her ruby lips. Then she murmured 
softly to herself : 

“ Twenty-one to-day ! What good fortune 


6 


MAEKBD FOE A VICTIM. 


will my birthday bring me in addition to what 
it has given ?” 

Her thoughts were off again in the teeming 
fields of fancy, roaming in the exuberance of 
happy womanhood. 

Care had never touched her. Such as she 
was now she had ever been from childhood’s 
hour, the spoiled darling of fortune. But no ! 
not spoiled. Her sweet face was full of noble- 
ness even in the pleased smile that stole to her 
lips as she dreamed of what life had yet to un- 
fold for her. What love awaited her ? What 
conquests ? 

At this moment the portieres were pushed 
aside and a young man entered the room. 
The face of the fair maid lit up with a radiant 
smile of welcome as she recognized him, and 
the long-fringed lids were lifted and the splendid 
dusky blue of her eyes shone radiantly upon 
him. 

“ Why, my darling, birthdays agree with you, 
it would seem? I must say something pretty, 
I suppose. You really do not look your 
twenty-one years. Y ou are ready, I see, for the 
gay joys of to-night. Upon my word, your 
eyes are like loadstones. Are they black or 
blue ? What a way they have of stealing out 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


7 


from that curtain of fringes which the lashes 
make. I never saw such eyes in my life.” 

“ There, you have said enough even for my 
twenty-first birthday,” said the girl. She had 
risen, and the beautiful proportions and con- 
tour of her exquisite form were fully revealed. 
As she slightly turned her head and glanced at 
him, her lover gave a start which her quick 



glance at once detected. He folded her tightly 
in his arms and breathed quickly, while she 
looked wonderingly at him. 

“ Darling, your eyes ! How like they are to 
hers ! As you turned that moment I recalled 
the expression of the face of your unfortunate 
friend, as I have seen it in your album many a 
time and as I saw it to-day on the public bul- 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


letins in the street. What a fate was hers! 
And what a strange affinity is this !” 

The young man shuddered with a horror he 
could not name, and pressed his affianced close 
to his breast. Then the girl freed herself from 
his passionate embrace and said : 

“You foolish boy! do not think such 
naughty, frightful thoughts. See ! I have a 
present which may be a talisman. It is Uncle 
Lai’s offering to me.” 

She loosened the front of her dress and drew 
forth a quaint locket. It was shaped like a 
heart, and in the centre blazed a diamond gem. 
Strange cabalistic symbols were marked upon 
it, and the workmanship, though deft, was of 
most unusual fashion, 

“ There is a lock of hair inside,” she added 
archly. Then as her lover’s face grew pained 
she quickly added : “ But it is snow white.” 

“ Why do you wear so precious a thing con- 
cealed beneath your gown ?” he asked, 

“ Because,” she answered “ those signs,” and 
she pointed to the strange blurred symbols on 
the locket, “ mean, ‘ I am the shield of the 
heart that I cover.’ ” 

She slipped it again in her bosom. When 
her lover left her, as he was walking through 
the hall, a thought struck him, and he clasped 


MASKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


9 


his hands about his head, groaning: “Good 
God : Her twenty-first birthday.” 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SERIES OF TRAGEDIES THAT EXCITED ALL 
LONDON. 

There was great excitement in the Strand. 
Newspaper boys were rushing wildly hither and 
thither, displaying placards announcing the 
committal of another of the mysterious mur- 
ders which had startled all London. 

Almost every person one met was eagerly 
reading the particulars in the newspaper he 
carried, while little knots formed themselves at 
the corners of the streets excitedly discussing 
the affair, 

The murder in question was the ninth that 
had been committed within the last nine months, 
and it had been carried out in precisely the 
same manner as the preceding eight. 

The victim, as in the previous >cases, was a 
woman, and was both young and beautiful. 

“ When will this reign of terror end ? When 
will the mystery which surrounds these murders 
be unravelled and the diabolical assassin be 


10 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


brought to book ? When ?” asked the Charing 
Cross Gazette, which contained a fuller account 
of the tragedy than the other evening news- 
papers. 

“ It is horrible ; it is terrible,” continued the 
paper, “and the police seem to be as far off as 
ever in the matter of clues. What is the use 
of a police ? What is the use of a Chief Com- 
missioner ? What is the use of a Home Sec- 
retary if murders such as these can be com- 
mitted with impunity ? 

“ According to the police each murder com- 
mitted was to have been the last, and yet victim 
after victim has been done to death without a 
trace of the hand which did the awful deed 
being discovered. And now we have the ninth 
victim, and, as she is the daughter of a dis- 
tinguished officer and a niece of a peer and 
intimate with the influential Hardcastle family, 
extra efforts may possibly be made to bring the 
murderer to justice. 

“Eight murders have failed to bring the 
Chief Commissioner to a sense of his duty, 
but this, the ninth and latest, may open his 
eyes.” 

The Charing Cross Gazette continued its ac- 
count of the mysterious tragedies in its next 
issue : 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


11 


“ Below we publish a list of the murders 
which have been committed during the past 
eight months. They are all undoubtedly by 
the same hand, and the murderer — alas that 
such a thing should be ! — is still at large. 

“NO. I — FLORRIE GREY, A SEAMSTRESS, 

“ The first of these murders took place on 
the night of the i ith or on the morning of the 
1 2th of February of this year. The victim 
was a girl of the people, a seamstress, living at 
205 India street, Islington. Her name was 
Florrie Grey, aged twenty-one. She was found 
lying in her bed about 8 o’clock on Sunday 
morning the 12th, stabbed through the heart 
with a poisoned dagger. No other outrage 
appeared to have been offered her, and no mo- 
tive assigned for the crime. She was a highly 
respectable hard-working girl, without, so far 
as was discovered, an enemy in the world. 
Several arrests were made, but nothing came of 
them, and to this day the assassin remains at 
large, 

“ NO. 2 — AN UNKNOWN FLOWER-GIRL. 

“Early in the evening of the 13th of March 
an unknown girl, apparently not more than 
twenty-one, was found in one of the courts 


12 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


leading out of Fleet street done to death in a 
manner precisely similar to the above. She 
had met her fate some hours before she was dis- 
covered by a dagger thrust through the heart. 
The wound was the same size — viz., a small 
puncture from which oozed a clot of blood — as 
that found on the body of poor Florrie Grey, 
and the medical evidence went to prove that 



SHE HAD DIED FROM THE POISONED 


DAGGER THRUST. 

the same poisoned dagger had been used. The 
unknown victim was a flower-girl, and some 
bunches of crushed violets were found in her 
stiffened hand. The body was never identified 
and the crime, like the preceding one, was, so 
far as could be ascertained, absolutely motive- 
less. 


MASKED FOE A VICTIM. 


13 


“ NO. 3 — THE VICTIM A POPULAR SINGER. 

“ The murders of Florrie Grey and the un- 
known flower-girl, while attracting considerable 
attention at the time, were on the point of be- 
ing forgotten when all London was aroused by 
the news that Miss Rose Manton, the popular 
soprano, had been murdered in her brougham 
while driving to her home in Regent’s park at 
the conclusion of a concert in St. James’s Hall. 
This was on the evening of April ii, and her 
death had been brought about by a dagger stab 
through the heart. 

“ Suspicion at first rested upon a rejected 
suitor — an Italian tenor. But he proved an 
alibi, and the police sought for the murderer — 
needless to say, without effect — elsewhere. 
M iss Manton was noted for her kindness of 
heart and sympathetic nature, and her terrible 
fate caused a profound sensation. 

“ Private detectives were employed, and 
members of the theatrical and musical profes- 
sions enrolled themselves as assassin hunters, 
but all to no purpose. The cowardly murderer 
has never be brought to book. 

“ NO. 4 . — A SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER. 

“The popular expectation that the nth of 
May — the day of the new moon — would pro- 


14 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


vide another victim for the unknown murderer 
was only too fully realized. A young girl, a 
Sunday-school teacher, Eliza Arnatt by name, 
was to be the next victim. She was killed on 
her way through St. James’s Park after leaving 
a West End chapel, where she was one of the 
singers of the choir. The deed must have 
been committed about 9 o’clock, for she left a 
female friend at 8.45 at the park gates, and the 
body was discovered on a seat at 9.30 by a 
passer-by. He stated that he heard no cry and 
that he saw no one leave the spot where the 
body was found. A hue and cry was at once 
started and the park scoured ; but, in spite of 
the most diligent search, the murderer was not 
found. Apparently the same dagger which 
had sent the three previous victims to their last 
account had been used on this occasion, and 
similar traces of poison were found in the 
wound. Why this poor girl should have been 
selected none could imagine, while people be- 
gan to ask themselves who would be the next 
victim. They had not long to wait for an 
answer. 


“ NOS, 5 and 6 — twin sisters. 

“On Saturday, June 9, two more victims 
were sacrificed to the murderous fury of the 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


15 


mysterious assassin. They were twin sisters, 
living in Gold street , Kensington. Murray was 
their name — Daisy and Adelaide, and they were 
the orphan daughters of a teacher of music. 
They got their living by giving music lessons 
and were girls of irreproachable character. 
They occupied the same bedroom, and were 
found by the landlady on Saturday evening, at 
about 8 o’clock, lying dead in their room, 
clasped in each other’s arms, their hearts pierced 
by a poisoned dagger. They had been mur- 
dered betweenthe hours of 5 and 7 p. m. The 
police, so far as one could judge, did all they 
could to trace the murderer, but without avail. 
There is no doubt that these equally motiveless 
murders were the work of one hand, and that 
of the wretch who had taken the lives of the 
other young women. 

“nos. 7 AND 8 — MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

“ The cup of horrors, which was thought to 
be full to the brim, was added to, in a manner 
that makes one’s blood run cold to think of, a 
month ago yesterday. 

“ The young wife of a civil-service writer, Mr. 
Harold Fitzgibbon, living at No. ia Westbury 
Villas, Maida Vale, was the victim on the qtli 
of July, In the middle of the night the house- 


16 


MAEKED POE A VICTIM. 


hold was aroused by a piercing shriek coming 
from the lady’s room. 

“ On entering the room Mr. Fitzgibbon 
found the lady’s maid in a fainting fit on the 
floor and his wife stabbed through the heart. 



THEY SEARCHED THE PARK FOR THE 
MURDERER IN VAIN. 


The body of his young daughter similarly 
stabbed was also found cold in death. The 
agony of the poor man can well be imagined. 
Here was he made a widower and childless at 
one fell stroke of the assassin’s knife, and that 
he should have become hopelessly insane 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


17 


through the shock is not to be wondered at. 
The stroke which had taken these two innocent 
lives was unquestionably made with the same 
weapon that had drunk the life blood of the 
six previous victims. 

“ The lady’s maid swore that she neither saw 
nor heard any one come into or leave the room. 
She admitted having fallen to sleep, during 
which time the dastardly crimes were com- 
mitted. It was only upon awaking that she dis- 
covered the terrible state of affairs, when she, 
as has been stated, aroused the household. 
She was altogether unable to throw any light 
upon the subject. No arrests were made, and 
all efforts to find the midnight assassin proved 
fruitless. 

“ NO. 9 — MISS ULVERSTONE, THE LATEST VICTIM. 

“ Yet another victim has to be added to this 
terribly long list of mysterious murders. Yes- 
terday evening at about ten o’clock Miss 
Geraldine Ulverstone, the only daughter of Gen. 
Ulverstone, of 1 4 Faversharn Gardens, Netting 
Hill, niece of Baron Furness, an intimate 
friend of that well-known belle. Miss Evelyn 
Hard castle, was murdered in her own house. 
As will be seen from particulars in another 
page the poor young lady was celebrating 


18 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


her twenty-first birthday, and in the midst of 
the festivities was suddenly and foully murdered, 

“ She had gone for a moment it appears to 
fetch Miss Hardcastle, who was with her, a 
spray of flowers from the conservatory. No 
one knows the precise moment she left the 
drawing-room but her absence was speedily dis- 
covered and the question asked as to where she 
was. 

“ Miss Hardcastle expressed her belief that 
she must have gone to the conservatory, as 
some quarter of an hour before she had prom- 
ised to get her some roses to take the place of 
the crushed flowers she was wearing in her 
dress. ‘ She evidently wishes to take me by 
surprise,’ added Miss Hardcastle, ‘ and I will 
just go and interrupt her in her mission.’ And 
with a laugh the young lady darted off to find 
her friend. A moment later a shrill agonized 
scream came from the conservatory. 

“On arriving there the General and his 
guests found Miss Hardcastle, pale and speech- 
less, bendingover thebody of Miss Ulverstone, 
which lay motionless on the floor. 

“ The young lady was quite dead — stabbed 
through the heart. It was seen at a glance that 
the terrible poisoned dagger had been used. 

“ Miss Ulverstone is the latest victim, but is 


MARKED EOE A VICTIM.' 


19 


she the last ? We cannot tell, but we fear not. 
Not a month has past but some one has been 
sacrificed to the murderous instincts of this un- 
known assassin. This makes the ninth, but 
judging from previous events, there will prob- 
ably be a tenth and eleventh, or even more, be- 
fore the bloodthirsty wretch is discovered, 

“No one is apparently safe from his unac- 
countable fury. He seems to select his victims 
at haphazard, being equally at home in the gar- 
ret of the poor and the mansion of the rich. 
The victims are in no way related to each other, 
and, so far as known, they never even knew of 
each other’s existence ; so there can be nothing 
in the nature of a family vendetta which has 
induced the fiend to take these innocent 
women’s lives. 

“We say fiend, for we really have our doubts 
whether the murderer can be human, and, if he 
be a being in human guise, whether he does 
not possess the spirit of a devil.” 


20 


MABKBD FOR A VICTIM. 


CHAPTER II. 

The Charing Cross Gazette hammered away 
at the inefficient police day after day. 

“ Strive as one will,” it observed, “ one can 
find neither reason nor motive for such unpar- 
alleled atrocities, and it is impossible to under- 
stand what connecting link there can be be- 
tween Florrie Grey, seamstress, an unknown 
flower-girl, a popular singer, a simple Sunday- 
school teacher, two orphan sisters, a mother 
and her child, and the only daughter of a well- 
known Indian officer. 

“ That there is some connecting link is, we 
think, certain ; and, although the victims have 
been selected apparently at haphazard, the im- 
portant fact must not be overlooked that each 
woman killed was not only twenty-one years of 
age, but she was killed on her birthday. The 
age of the flower-girl was unknown, but her 
age at the inquest was stated to be about twenty- 
one. The only exception is the young girl, and 
why the child was slaughtered by the hand 
which had just drunk its mother’s blood only 
the slaughterer can tell. 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


21 


“This age question cannot be a mere coinci- 
dence. The murderer has without doubt de- 
liberately made his selections, irrespective of the 
social position of his victims. 

“ Another point, which appears to have been 
altogether overlooked, is that the murdered 
women bear a striking resemblance to each 
other, and we should judge from the portrait of 
Miss Ulverstone in our possession that this 
young lady is singularly like the other victims. 

“ Can it be that the murderer is a maniac, 
who, having been made insane through disap- 
pointed love, seeks revenge upon every woman 
who, in his disturbed fancy, resembles the one 
who is the cause of his mental derangement ? 
If it be so, then there will— unless the mur- 
derer be speedily captured — practically be no 
limit to the number of his victims. 

“ It is a horrible idea, and the daring with 
which the murderer does his work lends color 
to it. 

“ The man may be sane, or he may be mad, 
or he may even be a fiend in human shape (as 
believers in the supernatural profess to believe), 
but the thing is to catch him and bring the 
diabolical crimes home to him. But how ? 

“ Hitherto he had baffled all the efforts o,. 
the police, as well of those of the Vigilance 


22 


MARKED FOR A TICTIM. 


Committees, which have been formed in every 
part of the metropolis. No stone — so far at 
least, as private effort has been concerned — has 
been left unturned, and yet not the remotest 
clue has been discovered. 

“ It seems incredible that this time the 
bloodthirsty wretch could have escaped, for the 
murder must have been committed almost 
within sight, and certainly within hearing, of 
the guests assembled in the drawing-room. 
Where could he have been in hiding when the 
unfortunate young lady entered the conserva- 
tory, and where could he have disappeared to 
between the time of committing the murder 
and the finding of the body ? It is only a 
question of a few minutes, for within twenty 
minutes of her absence from the room being 
discovered she was found lying lifeless on the 
ground, her quivering body telling that the 
death blow had but just been struck. 

“ The house, the gardens, indeed the whole 
neighborhood were immediately scoured, but 
nothing came of the search. 

“ Can it be, as has been suggested, that the 
murderer may be a highly respected man mov- 
in the best circles, and that he should be 
sought for inside, and not outside, of society ? 

“ In the present case this theory would not 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


33 


hold good, for every guest at General Ulver- 
stone’s was a personal friend of the family, and 
no one was absent from the room either before 
or during the time Miss Ulverstone was away, 
and certainly no stranger entered the house the 
whole evening. 

“ It behooves the police to make still further 
efforts to catch the murderer, and all that priv- 
ate enterprise can do should be done towards 
aiding justice in the matter. 

“ Meanwhile there appears as usual to be no 
clue.” 

The next day the hoardings in all parts of 
London were covered with the following 
notice • 

MURDER — PARDON. 

Whereas, on Aug. 7, at 14 Faversham Gar- 
dens, Netting Hill, Geraldine Ulverstone was 
murdered by some person or persons unknown, 
the Secretary of State will advise the grant of 
Her Majesty’s gracious pardon to any accom- 
plice not being a person who contrived or act- 
ually committed the murder, who shall give 
such information and evidence as shall lead to 
the discovery and conviction of the person or 
persons who committed the murder. 

(Signed) The Commissioner of Police 
OF THE Metropolis. 


24 


MASKED FOE A VICTIM. 


Metropolitan Police office, 4, Whitehall 
place, Aug, 8, 18 — . 

Nothing came of the Government offer of a 
pardon. No one turned Queen’s evidence, 
and the numerous rewards offered for the dis- 
covery of the murderer remained unclaimed. 
It was therefore generally surmised that he had 
no accomplices. 

The murders were the main topic of conver- 
sation in all ranks of society. The papers de- 
voted columns daily to a discussion of the sub- 
ject, and scarcely a sitting passed without ques- 
tions having bearing upon it being asked in the 
House. 

The wildest theories were conjectured and 
each man was convinced that the view he ad- 
vanced was the correct solution of the mystery. 
But, all the same, the mysterious assassin re- 
mained undiscovered, and all the supposed 
clues led to nothing. 

A few evenings after the murder of Miss 
Ulverstone, a number of members were sitting 
in the smoking-room of the Globe Trotters’ 
Club, St. James’s, discussing the all-absorbing 
question of the hour. 

“ I am more convinced than ever,” said a 
well-known mad doctor, “ that my theory is 
the correct one. The murderer is a discharged 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


25 


lunatic. Twenty-seven out of every twenty- 
eight days he is as sane as you or I; but on the 
twenty-eighth, with the budding of the new 
moon, he develops homicidal mania, and, dag- 
ger in hand, goes forth on his errand of mur- 
der.” 

“That may be,” remarked a criminal lawyer 



AT THE GLOBE TROTTER’s CLUB-HOUSE. 


sitting next to him ; “ but how does he man- 
age to escape detection ? Besides, in his lucid 
moments he would, I presume, read the news- 
papers and be acquainted with the fact of these 
murders having been committed, and with the 
blood-stained dagger in his possession, he 
would, I should imagine, connect himself with 


26 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM.’ 


the murders, and in his agony of mind run the 
risk of betraying himself if he did not actually 
give himself up.” 

“Not at all,” replied the doctor. “He 
doubtless reads the papers, but instead of con- 
necting himself with the murders, he would in 
all probability view with execration the com- 
mittal of such bloody deeds. And as far as the 
dagger is concerned, I feel convinced that im- 
mediately after the victim has been killed, he, 
while still insane, hides the weapon, and only 
fetches it from its hiding-place when the homi- 
cidal fit is next on him. In such case he, in 
his lucid intervals would know nothing of the 
dagger or the place where it was hid.” 

“ I never thought of that,” replied the lawyer. 

“ I have, but I cannot accept the theory.” 
It was an eminent author who spoke. 

“ How so ?” asked the mad doctor somewhat 
testily. 

“ Well, that sort of thing might be likely to 
be done in the solitude of the American back- 
woods, where a man, having murdered his vic- 
tims, might return unobserved to his unknown 
lair ; but in a crowded city like London, where 
everyone is on the lookout and where every- 
one suspects the other of being the murderer, 
such a man could not pass unnoticed. He 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


27 


must live somewhere, and his daily habits 
would, I presume, be in distinct contrast to 
those of the day on which the murder fit takes 
possession of him. 

“ Hear me out,” sharply added the author as 
the doctor made an exclamation of dissent. “ I 
know perfectly well what you are going to say. 
You would point out that this is not necessari- 
ly so ; but I maintain that it is, and that how- 
ever cunning your maniac may be he would 
not be able to escape the watch that is every- 
where kept upon any man, woman or child 
who may show the slightest oddity of manner. 
No, sir, unless your madman possesses the ring 
of Gyges and has the power of making himself 
invisible at will I cannot see how your theory 
can hold good.” 

“ What is your theory, then ?” said the doc- 
tor with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. 

“ Well, to tell the truth, I have no particular 
theory ; but these murders remind me of a 
strange affair that occurred in Paris some five 
and twenty years ago ; and the solution of that 
mystery may possibly apply to the present 
case.” 

He paused, and the members drew nearer to 
hear what he had to say. 

“ The affair to which I refer,” resumed the 


28 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


distinguished author, addressing the interesting 
group at the Globe Trotters’ Club, “ briefly 
was as follows : 

“ A rich banker, living in a splendid chateau 
at Versailles, was one morning found dead in 
his bed with his throat cut. He had, so far as 
could be discovered, not an enemy in the 
world, and as nothing in the house had been 
disturbed, robbery was evidently not the object 
of the murder. The banker had a wife (who 
was absent from home at the time) and an 
only daughter who was inconsolable at her 
father’s loss. Every effort was made on the 
part of the police to trace the murderer, but 
nothing came of it. The whole of the servants 
were arrested and closely examined, but their 
innocence was proved beyond doubt. 

“A month went by, when all Paris was start- 
led by the news that the widow, who had 
returned to the chateau on hearing of the 
death of her husband, had been murdered in 
precisely the same fashion. Again were the 
servants arrested, with nothing being found 
against them, and the police failed once 
more to get any clue to the actual murderer. 
There was no one on whom suspicion could be 
fastened, and the matter was on the point of 
beingforgotten when a famous mental scientist. 


MABEED FOE A VICTIM. 


29 


deeply interested in the psychological aspects 
of crime, made a discovery which gave a solu- 
tion to the mystery. While the detectives, 
after being convinced of the innocence of the 
domestics, were actively searching elsewhere 
for the criminal, the doctor contented himself 
with examining the daughter. 



“hear me out,” SHARPLY SAID THE AUTHOR. 

“ To all appearance she was overwhelmed with 
grief at the death of her parents ; so much so, 
in fact, that she was, through the shock to her 
system, confined to her bed for some time 
afterwards. It was during her illness that the 
famous doctor was called in, and he had excep- 
tional opportunities of watching her. The first 
thing he discovered was that she was highly 
hysterical, and the next thing that she was 


30 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


sensitive to so-called mesmeric influences. In 
order, during a fit of nervous depression, to 
quiet her he tried his hand at hypnotizing her, 
and with remarkable success. It was while in 
this hypnotized state that his suspicions were 
aroused, and when she had recovered her health 
he determined to try an experiment which 



would definitely decide whether his suspicious 
were well or ill founded. 

“The murders, so far as could be judged, 
had been committed between 12 p. m. and 6 
A. M. At midnight the doctor proceeded to 
mesmerize the young girl in her own room. 
He was not long in getting her into a subjec- 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.’ 


31 


live state, and, when he had succeeded in this, 
he proceeded with the further stages of his plan. 

“‘You have something to do, and you must 
do it,’ he said. 

“ The girl shivered and stood irresolute for 
awhile. Then, moving towards a box containing 
a portion of her wardrobe, she said : ‘ Y our 
will, Andrd, must be obeyed.’ 

“ She opened the box, and from the bottom 
fetched a blood-stained razor. She looked at 
it with horror in her eyes. 

“ ‘ Must I, Andrd ? — must I ?’ she said plead- 
ingly. ‘ O spare me this.’ And she fell upon 
her kness in a beseeching attitude. For several 
moments she knelt thus praying of some one 
to spare her doing a deed which she abhorred. 
But this some one apparently did not heed her, 
for she finally arose with a look of utter dejec- 
tion on her face. 

“ ‘ It must be ; it must be ! (and sbe wrung 
her hands). O God, forgive me.’ 

“ With this she wept. Then drying her eyes 
and bracing herself together for a final effort, 
she staggered rather than walked out of the 
room. 

“ She went direct to the room occupied by 
her father on the night of the murder, followed 
by the doctor and those who were witnesses of 


32 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


the experiment, She opened the door cau- 
tiously and entered the room. At the bedside 
she paused. Here her agitation was extreme, 
and she seemed on the point of turning and re- 
tracing her steps, when, as if impelled by an 
irresistible inward force, she bent over the bed, 
muttering as she did so : ‘ It is his will, his will, 
and I must do it. God forgive me.’ 

“With this she reached out her left hand, as 
if in the act of placing it upon a sleeping per- 
son’s mouth, and then, with the razor in her 
right hand, she made sundry slashes below the 
pillow. 

“ ‘ Now, Andr^,’ she said, gazing earnestly at 
the bed, ‘ your will is done.’ Returning to her 
room she hid the razor in the box, poured out 
some water and washed her hands, emptying 
the contents of the basin down a cistern, which 
she swilled clean with fresh water. Then she 
lay down. 

“ After a little while the doctor commenced 
further operations and impressed upon her that 
she had something else to do. 

“ She arose greatly agitated. 

“ ‘ Not that, Andr6 — not that ; anything but 
that. I did your will before, but spare her. 
For the love of God spare her.’ She held up 
her hands supplicatingly. Then, after a pause, 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


33 


she continued. ‘Must it be? Must it be? 
Has not enough blood already been shed? 
Why her life ? Oh, take mine and spare hers. 
. . . No, you will not relea.se me from my vow. 
Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu !’ — wringing her hands. 
Then she added after a pause, ‘ As you wish so 
must I do.’ She again left her room and this 



THE ARREST OF ANDRE MASSINET. 


time proceeded to the chamber that had been 
occupied by her murdered mother, where she 
went through much the same action as before. 

“There was no doubt in the minds of those 
who were witnesses of this strange performance 
that the young girl was the actual murderess, 
and that she had committed the murders while 


34 


MAEKBD FOE A VICTIM. 


under the influence of mesmerism. But who 
was the mesmerizer? Inquiries were at once 
made, and the fact discovered that the girl, 
while at Trouville, the Summer before, had 
formed an illicit intercourse with a chevalier 
d' indiistrie, kind of Prado, named Andrd Mas- 
sinet. He was arrested and after a while made 
a confession of his guilt. He explained how 
he had established an influence over his victim, 
and while in a mesmeric state he had impressed 
upon her the necessity of killing both her 
father and mother for the sake of their wealth. 
He willed her to do this while in Paris, where 
he was living at the time, with the fatal result 
I have described. When the girl heard of her 
seducer’s confession, the knowledge of her 
guilt (for be it understood she was absolutely 
unconscious of the part she had played) caused 
her to become hopelessly insane. Massinet 
escaped the guillotine by poisoning himself 
while in prison.” 

“ Well,” said the mad doctor when the 
speaker had finished, “ what has that got to do 
with the present case ?” 

“ A good deal,” was the quiet reply. 

“Surely you don’t believe that a mesmerizer 
has made some one over whom he has estab- 


MARKED POE A VICTIM. 


35 


<( 


lished an influence, commit the present mur- 
ders ?” asked the doctor. 

“ Of course nothing is certain, but I cannot 
help thinking that a solution of the mystery 
may be found in something of the kind.” 

“ That is absurd,” was the impolite rejoinder. 
“What motive could a mesmerizer have in 
causing such murders to be committed ? How 
is your mesmerized subject to have access to 
his various victims undiscovered ?” 

“ You mistake me, I did not say that all the 
murders were the work of one hand. The 
mesmerizer may have had a subject for each 
murder, and the diverse social position of the 
unfortunate victims lends color to my view.” 

“That cannot be,” replied the doctor, with a 
contemptuous shrug of his shoulders ; “ you 
forget that to all appearances the same dagger 
was used in each case.” 

“ To all appearances, yes,” said the author ; 
“ but appearances are delusive. Is it beyond 
question that the same dagger was used ? 

“ Quite !” The speaker was Dr. Harvey, a 
famous young analyst, who, by the bye, was 
engaged to Miss Hardcastle. “ I have seen 
the bodies of all the victims, and I have no 
doubt that each murder was the work of the 


36 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


same hand, and that the same weapon was used 
in each case.” 

“ That settles it,” said the author, somewhat 
discomforted : “ but still that fact does not dis- 
prove my theory that the murders may have 
been committed by some one while under the 
influence of mesmerism.” 

At this moment a tall, commanding figure 
joined the group. 

“ My dear Mansfield, when did you come 
back?” cried Dr. Harvey, warmly shaking him 
by the hand. “You of all men are the most 
likely to throw some light upon this terrible 
mystery.” 


CHAPTER HI. 

The new-comer. Col. Mansfield, was a very 
distinguished man. He had held high posts in 
the Indian diplomatic service, including that of 
the chief of the Thuggee and Dacoity Depart- 
ment, and of the ways and customs of the 
native races he probably knew more than any 
living Englishman. 

He was a great linguist, speaking most Eu- 
ropean and Eastern languages, including the 
patois of the hill tribes of Northern India, 


MARKED. FOR A VICTIM.’ 


37 


fluently. The natives trusted him, and he had 
great influence over them, and it was solely 
owing to his tact that many a diplomatic diffi- 
culty was smoothed over, and to his influence 
that certain serious acts of rebellion were 
averted. 

Col. Mansfield had dipped deeply into the 
sacred writings of the Hindoos and was greatly 
learned in what is termed the Occultism of the 
East. Since his retirement from active service 
he had devoted himself to special investigation 
into the Indian mysteries, which to the Eu- 
ropeans are, as of yore, a sealed book. He 
had penetrated into the mountain fastnesses of 
Thibet, the snowy solitudes of the Himalayas 
and the untrodden jungles of Burmah in search 
of knowledge. He had commenced with aged 
Brahmins, learned pundits, holy fakirs and 
mysterious hermits, who, living as they did in 
immediate contact with the active forces of 
nature, possess secrets unknown to ordinary 
men. 

It was rumored in official circles that while 
in Thibet he had been initiated in the sacred 
circles of adepts, and certain zealous mission- 
aries averred that he had sold himself to the 
devil. But whether Col. Mansfield had become 
a Theosophist or had allowed his soul to be 


38 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


come the possession of His Satanic Majesty or 
not, it was an indisputable fact that he was not 
like ordinary men. 

In appearance he was grave and dignified, 
tall and sparsely built, with not an ounce of 
superfluous fat. His age was five and fifty, 
but in his physical activity and brightness of 
eye looked fully ten years younger. His face 
was bronzed by the warmth of the Eastern 
sun and hardened by exposure, and down his 
right cheek was a deep seam made by the sword 
of a wild Rajput during the Mutiny, when he 
served with marked distinction. His eyes were 
a pale unfathomable blue, far searching distance. 
They were kindly*looking, although cold, and 
a student of character would at once have de- 
cided that he was a man of his word — a man to 
be trusted. 

Upon his arrival in the smoking-room he 
was warmly welcomed by those around him. 
returned their salutations with a courtesy, but 
politely declined to take a seat and join in the 
conversation. 

“Of this particular subject I know nothing,” 
he said; “ I have but this day returned from 
the East, and where I have been newspapers 
have not reached me. You will pardon me, 
therefore, if I ask you to excuse me from 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


39 


discussing the matter,” and, as if anxious to 
avoid further questioning, he retired into an 
adjoining room, 

“ What an off-hand fellow that Mansfield 
is,” said some one, when that gentleman had 
disappeared. 



“mad or not, he is a REMARKABLY ABLE MAN,” 
SAID A DRIED-UP INDIAN OFFICIAL. 

“ Yes, altogether unsociable,” remarked 
another. 

“ But what can you expect of a man who has 
been living for years in the wilderness, with 
only his shadow for company ?” added a third. 

“A touch of madness somewhere, eh, doc- 
tor ?” put in a ferret-faced barrister, significantly 
touching his forehead. 


40 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


The doctor vouchsafed no reply. 

“ Mad or not,” said a dried-up Indian official 
standing by, “he is a remarkably able man and 
knows more of the natives than the whole staff 
of the Indian Foreign Office put together. 
And if he has, as they say, sold himself to the 
devil, he has undoubtedly made a good bargain 
with His Satanic Majesty so far as this world is 
concerned, whatever may become of his soul 
in the next.” 

“If you knew Col. Mansfield as well as I 
do,” remarked Dr. Harvey with considerable 
warmth, “ you would know him to be one of 
the kindest- hearted fellows going, and a truer 
friend never existed.” 

No one appeared to question this direct tes- 
timony to the absent man’s character, and Dr. 
Harvey shortly afterwards left the room. In 
the hall he met Col. Mansfield. 

“ What are you doing this evening ?” he said. 
“ Will you dine with me ?” 

“ Thanks, no ; I do not dine as you dine. I 
am almost a Hindoo in the matter of eating, 
and the fleshpots of Egypt have no attraction 
for me.” 

“ Will you come home with me for an hour ? 
I am still living in the old place in Harley 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


41 


Street. I am most anxious to have a quiet talk 
with you.” 

“With pleasure,” said Mansfield, and a han- 
som being hailed they jumped in and drove to 
Harley street. 

“ Now my young friend,” asked Mansfield, 
when they were in the doctor’s study, “ what 
can I do for you ?” 

“ I want to speak with you about these hor- 
rible murders. You have heard about them, 
of course ?” 

“ No !” 

“Not heard of them? Why, I thought 
there was not a civilized country in the world 
where particulars of them had not been pub- 
lished,” replied Harvey, in considerable aston- 
ishment. 

“ That may be,” said his friend, “ but I have 
not been in civilized countries. I only this 
morning arrived from Constantinople. I have 
been travelling in Asiatic Turkey for the past 
twelve months, and have been cut off from 
home news altogether.” 

“Then you are ignorant of the death of 
Gen. Ulverstone’s daughter. She was foully 
murdered a week ago. She made the ninth 
victim, and, as in the other cases, no clue to the 
murderer has been discovered,” 


43 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


“ No ; I have not heard about it. It is true 
I saw some headlines on the newspapers’ con- 
tents bill at the station concerning what was 
called the ‘ latest murder,’ but as yet I have not 
read the papers. But what do you mean by 
‘ as in the other cases ?’ ” 

Harvey then gave him particulars of the 
mysterious tragedies which had so completely 
baffled the vigilance of the London detective 
force. 

“ It is as you say,” gravely remarked Mans- 
field when his companion had finished, “a very 
strange affair.” 

“ Have you in all your travels ever heard of 
anything similar ?” 

“ I have,” was the grave rejoinder. 

“ Indeed !” said Harvey, in considerable sur- 
prise. “ It has been asserted that in the an- 
nals of crime nothing similar is known.” 

“ I was not referring to anything that had 
taken place in England ; and much of what 
happens in the East finds no record in the 
West.” 

“And you think that an explanation of 
these murders may be found in something that 
has happened out in India?” said Harvey, 
eagerly. 

“ It is not impossible,” replied Mansfield, 


43 


“marked foe a victim.” 

“ Although I fail to see how the present mur- 
ders can have any connection with what I am 
referring to. No, no,” he muttered to himself 
after a pause, “ it cannot be their work. You 
say,” he added, looking intently at his compan- 
ion, “ that the victims bore a strong physical 
resemblance to each other?” 

“Yes, a most remarkable likeness.” 

“ And the death wound in each case was 
precisely the same ?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ And the wound in each case was poisoned ? 
Have you any idea of the nature of the poison 
used ?” 

“ None whatever. It is a vegetable poison 
unknown in our pharmacopoeia.” 

Col. Mansfield reflected a moment, and then 
he asked another question : 

“ Was death, in your opinion, instantaneous 
in each case ?’ 

“Quite so, and the evidence goes to show 
that not so much as a sound escaped from the 
lips of the murdered women.” 

“ Do you think they could have been chloro- 
formed before being murdered ?” 

“ No ; there was no trace of chloroform.” 

“ How do you account, then, for the abso- 
lute silence of the victims ?” 


44 


“marked foe a victim.” 


“ I cannot account for it ; it is a matter that 
has puzzled me much.” 

“ Do you think they were mesmerized ?” 

“ I cannot say, But had they been mesmer- 
ized, they would, I presume, have been uncon- 
scious of the hand that struck the blow ; 
whereas, judging from the expression of their 



MANSFIELD STARTED SLIGHTLY AS HE LOOKED AT THE 
PHOTOGRAPH. 

eyes, they were conscious of the fate that ap- 
proached them.” 

“ What was this expression ?” asked Mans- 
field, with more eagerness than he had hitherto 
shown. 

“ One of intense horror.” 


So !” 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


45 


It was but an exclamation, but it was fraught 
with meaning. 

“ Does this say anything to you ?” asked 
Harvey, eagerly. 

“ It says a good deal, but in India it would 
say a good deal more.” 

“ In India — why in India ?” 

“ Because it is only in India — if I am right 
in my deductions — that an adequate motive 
could be found for such apparently wanton 
murders. If I could have seen the corpse of 
the unfortunate young lady I could at once 
have told whether my present suspicions as to 
the motive of the crime were correct.” 

“ I have a photograph of her taken after 
death; would that tell you anything?” Har- 
vey produced a photo from his pocket and 
handed it to Mansfield. 

The latter started slightly as he looked at it. 

“ My suspicions are confirmed,” he said 
slowly. “ But how can this be ?” he added to 
himself ; “ why should they seek their victims 
here ? It is very strange — very strange.” 

Then looking up at his companion he said : 

“ Miss Ulverstone appears to have been very 
like my goddaughter, Evelyn Hardcastle — that 
IS, as I remember her ; or is it my fancy ?” 

“ Not at all ; they were wonderfully alike in 


46 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


voice, in appearance and in disposition. In 
fact, it was exceedingly difficult to tell one 
from the other, and even I at first was fre- 
quently puzzled to decide off-hand which was 
my fiancde. See, here is Evelyn,” and he 
opened a locket dangling from his watdh-chain. 
“The likeness is very remarkable, isn’t it?” 

“ It is remarkable, and it may be fatal,” was 
the solemn reply. 

“ Fatal, Mansfield ! Good God, what do 
you mean ?” said the young man greatly 
alarmed. 

“ Do not alarm yourself. I may be wrong 
in my conjecture, and — ” 

“ I see what you mean,” replied Harvey, 
hoarsely ; you think she — my darling— may be 
the next victim. You believe so? You can- 
not deny it,” and in the intensity of his emotion 
he gripped his companion tightly by the arm. 

“ I will not deceive you,” replied Mansfield, 
sympathetically. She — if my theory is correct 
— may be in danger. Sooner or later the hand 
that has taken the lives of the others will pos- 
sibly make the attempt on her life. But ” — and 
his eyes lit up with a strange light — “ this time 
they will be baffled of their prey. I will save 
her,” he added to himself, “ if it costs me my 
life.” 


UAKKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


47 


CHAPTER IV. 

Evelyn Hardcastle, Fred Harvey’s fiancee, 
was a beautiful girl. She was very fair, with a 
wealth of golden hair ; her eyes were a deep 
blue and of the kind a poet calls soulful, and 
she was exquisitely formed. But her charms 
did not lie so much in regularity of facial out- 
line and perfection of form as in the sweetness 
of her disposition and graceful bearing. 

Her murdered friend had, as has been stated, 
closely resembled her, especially in the express- 
sion of the eyes. No one who knew them 
failed to notice the extraordinary resemblance. 
Their dispositions, too, were to all outward ap- 
pearance precisely alike,t he wish of one invari- 
ably being the wish of the other. From early 
childhood they had been friends, and it was 
their boast that in all the years they had known 
each other they had not once quarrelled. 

The learned Theosophist stated on one occa- 
sion that there was undoubtedly an affinity — 
whatever that might mean — between them, 
and that their souls as well as their lives were 
bound together in indestructible bonds. They 
were as the love-birds, he said, made for each 


48 


MARKED FOE A TICTIM. 


Other while in life ; and as the love-bird, if 
robbed of its mate, pines and dies, so would it 
be impossible for one to survive the other. 
But Geraldine Ulverstone had been slain, and 
Evelyn Hardcastle, in spite of the alleged af- 
finity, did not die. She was, as a matter of 
course, terribly upset, and the shock to her sys- 
tem caused considerable anxiety, but her love 
for Fred Harvey sustained her. Had she had 
no lover to lavish her affections upon, her sym- 
pathetic heart might have broken at the loss 
of her friend. 

For more than a fortnight after the inquest 
she was confined to her room, but at length 
she was well enough to come downstairs and 
receive a few of her personal friends. 

It was the eve of her birthday. 

Several friends had called during the after- 
noon, but they had all gone, and she and her 
fiancde were alone together. 

“ Now, Fred, we are all alone ; tell me what 
ails you. Are you ill, dearest ?” she said, with 
a shade of anxiety upon her face. 

“ No, darling,” he answered somewhat weari- 
ly; “ I am quite well.” 

“ Why, then, are you so sad and heavy, for, 
you dear old fellow, you are as dull as — well, I 
don’t know what. A nice, cheerful companion 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


49 


for an invalid,” she added banteringly. “ Come, 
smile; no, smile — that’s it.” 

Harvey tried to smile, but it was like a No- 
vember sun endeavoring to shine through a 
London fog. 



A GLIMPSE OF EVELYN HARDCASTLE. 


“You call that a smile, do you?” and she 
held up her finger reprovingly. “ There must 
be something,” she continued ; “ what is it 
now ? Y ou mustn’t have secrets from me — in- 
deed you mustn’t.” 

“ I have no secrets, my darling.” He said 
this with an attempt at a laugh, but it was a 


50 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


nervous meaningless laugh, and the sternness 
of his face did not relax. 

“ Then why are you so glum, Fred ? It 
isn’t at all like you. Aren’t you pleased with 
me ? I feel almost inclined to cry ; and I was 
so happy to think you were coming to-day.” 
She lowered her eyes which became dim with 
tears. 

“This will not do, dearest. Look up, Evie 
mine,” and he pressed her hands passionately 
in his. “ See, darling, 1 am smilling,” and the 
poor fellow looked into the eyes that were 
turned to him. But they were tears that soft- 
ened his eyes, not smiles. 

“You don’t call that smiling! Why, Fred, 
you are crying,” she replied, stroking his head. 

“Yes, dear, out of sympathy for you.” He 
bit his tongue after he had said the words, but 
they were spoken and could not be recalled. 
Luckily she did not understand his meaning. 

“Out of S3^mpathy for me, dear; how so? 
Am I not quite well now? You said yourself 
that I should soon be all right — and you are a 
doctor.” 

“Yes, dear,” he replied, “I know that. I 
dare say I am very foolish ; but I do love you 
so.” 

He was thinking of the fate that might be 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


51 


awaiting her. To-morrow was her birthday, 
and to-morrow she might be lying dead. He 
tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. 
“ Why should she be murdered — she who has 
not a single enemy in the world ?” argued 
Hope. “ But then,” replied Fear, “ What had 
Geraldine Ulverstone done? Why was she 
chosen as a victim ? If she was murdered, 
why should your darling escape ?” 

It was an anxious time for him, and the anx- 
iety laid its impress upon his spirits. 

Evelyn accepted Fred’s explanation, al- 
though she was convinced there was something 
more to be explained, but she kept her doubts 
to herself and said nothing more. 

The entrance of her father, a somewhat care- 
worn-looking man of sixty (Evelyn had no 
mother) followed by Col. Mansfield, moreover, 
cut short all further conversation. 

Evelyn sprang up with a cry of delight as 
she saw her godfather. 

“ Well, my little one ; but this I must call 
you no longer, for you have become a woman 
since I last saw you,” said Mansfield, taking 
both her hands in his and kissing her on her 
forehead. 

“You may call me what you like. Uncle 
Lai” — with her he was always Uncle Lai, al- 


53 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


though they were in no way related. “ But 
what a long time it is since we last saw you ; 
where have you been all these years ?” 

“ That, my dear, would take weeks to tell : 
but I hope before I leave again to have time 
to tell you all that has happened since we last 
met.” , 

“ Before you leave again ? You mustn’t be 
talking about leaving. Why, you have only 
just come, and this is the first time I have seen 
you for five years.” 

“ I hope to be able to stay till the end of the 
year. In such case, with your permission, I 
shall see you often ; but, to be frank with you, 
I may have to leave at any moment — perhaps 
even to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow !” said Fred and Evelyn in one 
breath, and the expression on the young man’s 
face was one of the greatest alarm. He had 
convinced himself that the only chance of his 
darling’s safety lay in the protection of Col. 
Mansfield ; and now he, who might be able to 
save her, was going away. 

“Yes, it may be to-morrow that I shall have 
to depart.” 

“ And where to ?” asked Evelyn. 

“To India.” 

A suppressed groan escaped from Harvey’s 


53 


“maeked foe a victim.” 

tightly compressed lips. There was, then, no 
hope of his assistance. 

“You spend all your time out there now, 
Mansfield,” said Mr. Hardcastle. “ I hope you 
find it pays.” 

“All my interests are centred in the East,” 
was the equivocal reply. 



“ I have no secrets, my darling,” he said. 

“When is your book coming out. Uncle 
Lai ?” said Evelyn; “ one hears so much about 
it, and I am terribly anxious to see it.” 

“Not just yet, dear; not till I am dead, 
maybe.” 

“ Don’t talk of dying. Uncle Lai ; you must 


54 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


never die,” replied Evelyn, with a reproachful 
glance. 

“ Well, don’t let us talk about the book, 
then, but about yourself, dear. To'-morrow is 
your birthday, is it not ?” 

“ Y es, to-morrow I am twenty-one ; only 
fancy, to-morrow I am of age, and then I shall 
commence the down grade, according to a 
woman’s idea about age. But I don’t feel at 
all old. Do I look old. Uncle Lai? You at 
least will tell me the truth. Fred and father 
are such dreadful flatterers.” 

She turned her sweet face to his with a be- 
witching roguery in her expressive eyes. 

“Old, dear? If -all women looked as fresh 
and young at one and twenty ! So your father 
and this thrice happy young man flatter you, 
do they? They probably only speak half the 
truth,” replied her godfather, gallantly. “ Why, 
Harvey, what makes you look so glum?” he 
said, turning to the young doctor, who, at the 
reference to his fiancee’s birthday, had percepti- 
bly shuddered ; for was it not on her twenty- 
first birthday, exactly a month ago, that Ger- 
aldine Ulverstone had been murdered ; and 
what might not be the fate on the morrow of 
the girl he loved best on earth ? 

Harvey made some haphazard answer, and 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


55 


Mansfield, seeing how the land lay, did not 
again refer to the matter. 

“Now, my little goddaughter, I rhust say 
good-day,” said Mansfield after a while, “ and I 
hope it will not be good-by. But I cannot at 
this moment tell where to-morrow will find me. 
I have therefore brought with me a little birth- 
day gift, which I might not be able to bring 
to-morrow, and I prefer your receiving it from 
my own hands.” 

He took from his pocket a packet and opened 
it. It contained a gold chain curiously fash- 
ioned, to which was attached a locket. The 
locket was heart-shaped, and in the centre was 
a diamond, shaped like the sun, its scintillations 
in the light looking like sun-rays, 

“ What a beautiful present, and what a lovely 
diamond,” said Evelyn, enthusiastically, as she 
took the gift from Mansfield’s hand. “ It con- 
contains a lock of hair ; how white it is and 
how strangely woven, and what do these 
curious signs mean ?” she added, pointing to 
the polished surface of the heart, “ It must be 
very old.” 

“ It is very old, dear — older than any living 
man ; older, in fact, than many nations,” re- 
plied Mansfield gravely. 

“ How good of you to give me so curious 


6G 


“marked foe a victim.” 

and beautiful a present ! But, Uncle Lai, you 
haven’t told me what these hieroglyphics 
mean ?” 

“ They mean, dear,” he replied, spelling out 
the signs ; “‘lam the shield of the heart that 
I cover.’ ” 

“ What a beautiful sentiment ! I really ought 



IT WAS A CURIOUS PIECE OF HANDIWORK. 

to wear it over my heart after that,” she an- 
swered gayly. 

“Yes, dear; that is just what I was going 
to ask you to do, to wear it always, sleeping or 
waking. You promise to do this?” He asked 
the question with great earnestness. 

“Of course. Uncle Lai, I will do so if you 
wish it.” 

“ I do wish it,” he replied simply. 


MARKED FOB A VICTIM. 


57 


Then, taking his present from her, he put 
the chain round her neck, with the locket cov- 
ering her beating heart, muttering something 
to himself as he did so. 

“ What were you saying to yourself. Uncle 
Lai ? It sounded like some mystic rite,” said 
Evelyn, looking at him with curious eyes. 

“I was simply saying I hoped it would bring 
you good luck,” he replied somewhat evasively ; 
“ presents given beforehand are said to be un- 
lucky, you know, and I want this to be a talis- 
man of good fortune. And now, dear, I must 
be going. You won’t begrudge me a farewell 
kiss, I hope ?” 

He took her fair face in his hands and pressed 
a burning kiss upon her forehead. 

“ How much you are like your mother — 
there, good-by,” he said ; and as he turned away 
tears were in his eyes. Evelyn never forgot 
his farewell look or his farewell words. In 
another moment he was gone. 

“ Are you really going away to-morrow ?” 
said Harvey, nervously, as he saw his friend to 
the door. 

“ I cannot at this moment say ; it is possible 
— nay, it is probable ; but to-night will decide 
everything.” 

“ I had hoped,” replied the young man. 


58 “marked for a victim.” 

mournfully, “ that you would have stayed over 
to-morrow, for I have — I can’t tell you why — 
so much faith in your power to avert any dan- 
ger that may threaten her. But tell me, stand- 
ing here with your hand in mine, if you think 
she is in any danger.” 



“At this moment I cannot tell you what 
may happen. To-night I shall know all. Call 
on me to-morrow.” 

“ But before the sun rises she may — if the 
assassin has selected her as his next victim — be 
dead,” replied Harvey, in an anguish of despair. 

“ Nay, my friend, no harm can come to her.” 

“ Are you certain of this ?” 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


59 


“ As certain as there is a life beyond the 
grave — that is, if she fails not to wear the locket 
next her heart.” 


CHAPTER V. 

It was midnight — midnight in the heart of 
London. Big Ben was just striking the hour, 
and its sonorous notes were being wafted across 
the dark running Thames, when Col. Mansfield 
entered his chambers in the Temple. 

He struck a light on entering and seated him- 
self in an armchair, burying his face in his 
hands as if in deep thought. For several 
minutes he sat thus without moving ; then he 
raised his head. Upon his face was an expres- 
sion of marked determination, and a strange, 
far-off look was in his eyes. 

“For her sake I have done it ; for her sake,” 
he muttered to himself. He opened a cabinet 
close at hand and took from it a miniature. It 
was the portrait of a beautiful girl. He looked 
at it fondly and kissed it several times. 

“ How very like her daughter. Evie has 
her eyes, her look, her soul,” he said gazing at 
the portrait with rapt attention. 


60 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


“ For your sake I will brave all,” he con- 
tinued. “ In life we have been separated, in 
death we should be united. In death, which is 
the life beyond, our souls would come together. 
So be it.” 

He returned the miniature to the cabinet. 

“ The night has waned, the hour for putting 
the matter to the test has arrived,” he said, 
looking out of his window upon the silent 
garden below. 

With this he entered his bedroom. 

“ In about ten minutes he returned dressed 
in a long, flowing robe of white. His appear- 
ance was entirely altered, and he looked more 
like the figure of a Persian magi than an Eng- 
lish officer. 

In his hand he carried a scroll and an ebony 
rod, carved with numerous symbols. He stood 
in the centre of the room, where he lifted up 
his eyes as if id prayer, although no words es- 
caped his lips. Then he blew out the light, 
but he was not in darkness, for a most remark- 
able thing happened ; the scroll when opened 
appeared to be illuminated with some luminous 
substance, and as he held it up to read, the light 
therefrom shone upon his face. 

Slowly and impressively he read in a strange 
tongue from the pages he held. 


MASKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


61 


Then, taking the rod in his right hand and 
drawing a circle round him where he stood, he 
commenced the following incantation : 

“ Masters, hear me. 

“ Brothers, hear me. 

“ I, who have drunk of the water of purity 
and have eaten of the fruit of eternity ; I, who 
am even as thou art need thy guidance. 

“ Deny it me not, my master ; deny it me 
not, my brothers. 

“ By the sign of our brotherhood I adjure 
ye.” 

He bared his breast and exposed the sign of 
a heart in the centre of which was a blazing 
sun punctured, and upon the stillness came the 
answer in solemn tones : 

“ By the sign of thy brotherhood, what thou 
askest shall be answered, what thou wishest 
shall be done.” 

No one was visible, and the voice suddenly 
ceased. 

“ Master, I thank thee,” said Mansfield, fer- 
vently, bowing low before him. Then he 
continued : 

“ O Master ! 

“ O Brothers ! 

“To whom everything is known, be it of 
evil or be it of good : who can divine our in- 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


G'Z 




nermost thoughts and interpret all our motives, 
be we where we may, lift, I pray ye, the veil 
that is now before my eyes. 

“A Thing of Evil is on the path of blood, 
threatening, may be, the life of one who is dear 
unto me. 



THE FIGURE POINTED TO A MYSTIC SIGN 
PUNCTURED ON HIS BREAST. 


“ Her I would defend — ay, even unto the 
sacrifice of my own life. 

“ Hear me, then, O Masters ! 

“ Hear me, then, O Brothers ! 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


63 


“ Send this shade of Darkness unto me so 
that I may see his face and know whom it is 
that threatens.” 

“ It shall be as thou wishest, brothers !” came 
the reply in the same solemn tones as the first. 

Mansfield bowed low again. 

“Masters, I thank thee. 

“ Brothers. I thank thee,” he said. 

Then waving his stick three times he called 
out in a loud voice : 

“ Come forth thou slave of Evil ! 

“ Come forth thou shade of Darkness ! 

“ Stand before me, thou whose hand is red 
with the blood of the innocent, so that I may 
know thy purpose and stay thy hand. 

“ By the Power of Light and the Will of 
the One Master I command thee.” 

The room grew suddenly darker, and a thick, 
fog-like atmosphere arose around Mansfield, 
whose face and form, however, lit up by the 
magic scroll, stood out clear and distinct. 

Mansfield’s words echoed strangely in the 
room, and they had barely ceased when another 
voice was heard. It was harsh and gutteral, 
and this was what it said : 

“ What does the Brotherhood of Light wish 
of the Slave of Darkness? 


64 


MARKED POE A VICTIM. 


" As the power of Light commands, so do 
I obey. 

“ Behold, oh Brother of Light I stand be- 
fore thee. What is thy wish ?” 

Out of the foul, damp atmosphere the figure 
of a man seemed to form itself, and, the room 
growing suddenly lighter, it stood revealed, 
facing Mansfield. The face of the man was 
hard and stone-like, the lips were wreathed with 
a malevolent smile, while the expression of his 
eyes was horrible in the extreme. In his right 
hand the man held a dagger shaped like a 
serpent. 

“ What, you ?” said Mansfield, drawing afresh 
the circle with his rod. 

“ Yes, I,” replied the form, opening his close- 
fitting tunic of black and exultantly pointing 
to a mystic sign punctured on his breast. It 
was that of a crescent, over which trailed a 
loathsome serpent, black as night, and with pale, 
dilated eyes. 

Mansfield shuddered as he saw it, and he read 
some words from the scroll he held. 

When he looked up again he was alone. 
The form had disappeared. 


MAEKBD FOR A VICTIM. 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

It was some hours past midnight. A great 
silence was over the earth. Not a sound was 
heard in the streets, not even the footsteps of 
the policemen on beat. Evelyn Hardcastle 
lay in bed, sleepless and restless. Once she 
had closed her eyes and had dreamed a horrible 
dream. 

Dark figures with evil eyes surrounded her. 
They sought to clutch her and tear her limb 
from limb. Then came the lithe form of a 
man with a dagger in his hand. His face was 
dark, but his eyes were like coals of fire. He 
approached her bed and muttered some incan- 
tation over her. 

She could neither move nor cry out. All 
power of resistance was subdued in her. Nearer 
came the man, and then he raised his dagger, 
formed like a serpent with pale, flashing eyes, 
and held it over her. 

Down it came, and a pain like a thrust of a 
red-hot iron smote her in the region of the 
heart. 

She awoke with a start, bathed in perspiration. 


OG 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


“ How horrible! How horrible 1” she said, 
looking tremblingly around the room. 

She was not a superstitious girl, but the cir- 
cumstances seriously impressed her. 

What if it should be a warning of her ap- 
proaching end ? 



LYING ON THE DOORSTEP WAS THE FORM 
OF A MAN. 

1 

She remembered that the night before 
Geraldine Ulverstone was murdered her friend 
had had a somewhat similar dream. 

Could it be that she was to die in a like 
manner. 

Oh ! Fred, Fred, what will happen to you 
if I am killed ?” 


MARKED FOE A VIC TIM. 


67 


Her first thoughts were of her lover. 

“ And, father, dear, you would be so lonely 
if I were dead, you have no one but me since 
poor mother died. And dear Uncle Lai ; he 
would miss me too. 

“And I am so young to die. Oh, Father 
in heaven, have mercy on me. For their sakes 
protect me this night.” 

She prayed long and fervently, and at the 
conclusion was considerably calmed. 

Once she thought she heard mocking voices ; 
and the flapping of the window blind made her 
heart leap with fear. 

She tried to sleep, but her thoughts were too 
active. 

Presently she arose and looked at her watch. 
It was close upon 5 o’clock. 

“ I was born at 5 they tell me, so now I am 
twenty-one. To-day, too, the new moon is 
born.” 

She went to the window and looked out. 

Below her, lying on the doorstep, was the 
form of a man. It was Harvey, who had 
fallen asleep on his watch. She did not see 
him, and she had no idea that her faithful lover 
had come to keep watch and guard over her. 

All was still without. The stars were paling 


68 


MARKED FOB A VICTIM.' 


to extinction and the red flush of morn was in 
the skies. 

“ Everything seems born afresh to-day,” she 
said, looking towards the east, where the sun 
was chasing away the night clouds. 

As she stood there a shadow fell across the 
window. 

It was that of a hand holding a dagger. 

“ Merciful God, what’s that ?” she shrieked, 
drawing back. 

The hand was followed by the form of a man. 

The face, the form were those of the fiend 
of her dream. 

She tried to scream, but her tongue clove to 
her mouth. 

She attempted to move, but her limbs re- 
fused to act. She was as one under the fascina- 
tion of a snake. 

And nearer and nearer came the dread form 
with the glittering, baneful eyes. 

Oh, the horror of those eyes ! 

The hand was raised, and the point of the 
dagger, which seemed to writhe like a live 
snake in its grasp, was pressing upon her heart. 

The form of the fiend as it bent over her 
looked like a distorted shadow — like the out- 
come of a hallucination. The dagger alone ap- 
peared real and substantial. 


MAEKED POE A VICTIM. 


69 


As the point was level with her breast, the 
terror-stricken girl remembered Mansfield’s 
'words, and, by a superhuman effort, she 
clutched at the chain around her neck and 
pressed the locket upon her heart. 

Then she was struck. She felt the dagger 
glide off the locket. 

A yell of baffled rage, of agonized despair 
rang in her ears. 

The room swam round her, the awful figure 
vanished, she remembered no more. With a 
shriek she fell fainting to the ground. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The news of the attempt on Miss Hardcas- 
tle’s life speedily became known, and created 
a profound sensation. The newspapers issued 
special editions, and placards bearing the fol- 
lowing headlines were carried about by yelling 
newsboys : 

The Mysterious Murders ! 

An Attempt ! ! 

The Would-Be Victim Saved by a 
Charm ! ! ! 

The most extraordinary rumors were cur- 


70 “marked foe a victim.” 

rent. The murderer, it was said, was now 
known, and his arrest would only be a question 
of hours. One paper stated that the murderer, 
the keeper of an antiquity shop, had actually 
been arrested, and that Miss Hardcastle had 
identified a dagger in his posse.ssion as the one 
that had been aimed at her heart. But these 
statements were flatly contradicted in subse- 
quent editions, and as the day wore on, the po- 
lice were, it was asserted, without a clue. 

Miss Hardcastle was too ill to be seen by 
any one, and the reporters had to content 
themselves with interviewing her father and 
Dr. Harvey. 

Dr. Harvey stated that impelled by some 
unaccountable premonition, he had decided to 
keep guard outside his fiancde’s house, believ- 
ing, as he did, that her life was in danger. 
He added that he must have fallen asleep, for 
he was suddenly aroused by a piercing shriek 
coming from Miss Hardcastle’s room. 

Fearing the worst, he rushed to the house- 
bell and rang it, at the same time crying loudly 
for help. The house was speedily aroused, and 
by the time the door was opened two police- 
men had appeared on the scene. One accom- 
panied him inside the house, while the other 
went around to the back. The back door. 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


71 


like the front, was fastened inside. All the 
windows, too, were shut and latched, and the 
assassin could not have possibly left the house. 

Miss Hardcastle was found lying in her 
dressing-gown on the floor in a dead faint. 
She was, however, uninjured. 



HARVEY KNOCKED AT MANSFIELD’S DOOR. 

Of the murderer there was no trace. The 
most rigorous search was made everywhere, 
even unto the chimneys, but without avail. 
He certainly had not left by either the windows 
or the doors, and he was not in the house. 
Could the assassin be among the servants? 


72 “marked foe a victim.” 

They were placed under arrest, pending the re- 
turn of consciousness of their young mistress. 

When she came to it was a strange story 
that she told, so strange, in fact, that every one 
thought her laboring under a hallucination ; 
and were it not for the deep scratch on the 
locket made by the dagger as evidence of the 
attempt, the whole affair would have been put 
down as a disordered creation of the brain. 

The medical evidence went to show that the 
dagger scratch was in all probability made by 
the very weapon used in connection with the 
previous murders, and that it was beyond ques- 
tion that the young lady owed her safety to the 
locket she wore round her neck. 

Had it not been for Col. Mansfield’s souve- 
nir a tenth victim would have been added to 
the list. 

“ What was the virtue of this talisman ?” 
asked the writers of the papers. 

“ How did Col. Mansfield know the attempt 
would be made ?” For he must have known, 
they argued, otherwise he would not have made 
the gift and have given the solemn instructions 
he did as to the wearing of it. 

“ Couldn’t Col. Mansfield throw some light 
upon the mystery ? Couldn’t he give a clue 
to the discovery of the murderer ? 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


73 


“ We wait Col. Mansfield’s explanation.” 

Dr. Harvey, as soon as he had assured him- 
self of Evelyn’s safety and the hopelessness of 
finding the assassin in the house or grounds, 
had driven to Col. Mansfield’s chambers in the 
Temple. It was close upon lo o’clock when 
he arrived there, and he felt sure of finding his 
friend at home. But to his disappointment 
the caretaker told him she believed he was out. 

“ When did he go out ?” asked Harvey. 

“ I don’t know, sir,” was the curt reply. 
“ He was out when I knocked at his door — at 
least he didn’t answer ; but when he went out, 
sir, I don’t know.” 

“ Didn’t he leave any message for me ?” 

“None as I know of, sir, shall I go and 
see ?” 

“ Thanks ; I will go myself.” 

Harvey mounted the stairs and knocked at 
his friend’s door. There was no answer. He 
entered the room. Mansfield was not there. 
His things were lying about, so he evidently 
intended to return. 

On the table, propped against the inkstand, 
was a bulky packet. It at once attracted Har- 
vey’s attention. 

It was addressed as follows : 


74 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


To F. Harvey, Esq., M. D.: 

Not to be opened until the 
20 th of the present month. 

Dated 6th September, i8 — . 

So he was gone. His departure hinted at 
the night before had actually taken place. 

“ But if he had gone to India, why had he 
left his wardrobe and travelling things behind 
him,” thought the young doctor. “ But per- 
haps he has altered his mind,” he concluded, 
“ and has simply gone into the country for a 
few days.” 

He knew him to be a man of curious habits 
and not one to be judged by ordinary rules, 
and his sudden departure did not particularly 
surprise him. 

It was, however, he said to himself, most 
unfortunate that he should be away at a time 
when his services might be of the greatest use. 
But there was no help for it ; he was gone, and 
his reasons for going were probably contained 
in the packet he had left behind — a packet 
which, according to the instructions written 
thereon, was not to be opened for another fort- 
night. In the meantime the assassin, who, with 
Col. Mansfield’s help, might be brought to jus- 
tice, would probably escape, 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


75 


Harvey looked about the sitting-room for 
some further signs of his absent friend. 

The fire grate was strewn with torn and burnt 
pieces of paper. 

Drawn on the carpet was a black ring, as if 
made with a hot iron. 



PROPPED AGAINST THE INKSTAND WAS 
A BULKY PACKET. 


“ Queer idea, to burn one’s carpets in this 
fashion,” thought Harvey ; “ some chemical 
experiment, I suppose,” he added, stepping in- 
side the ring. 

“ What is that ?” said the young man, look- 
ing hastily around. He thought he heard a 
sigh. 


76 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


“ I wonder if there is anybody in the next 
room ? Perhaps Mansfield’s not up yet, 
although he is a deuce of an early riser.” He 
went, as he said this, to his friend’s bedroom 
and knocked. 

The echo of the knock was the only answer 
he received. 


CHAPTER VIH. 

He tried the handle ; the door was fastened. 
“ Are you in, Mansfield ?” he called out, rattling 
the door-handle. 

There was no reply. 

“ I suppose he doesn’t want anybody to med- 
dle with his things while he is away,” thought 
the young man, “ and so locked up his room 
before going.” Then something prompted him 
to strike a light and look through the keyhole. 
The door was fastened from the inside and the 
key was still in the lock. 

“ Good God ! can anything have happened to 
him ?” exclaimed Harvey. “ It must have been 
his sigh I heard : perhaps he is lying in there 
dying. 

“ Mansfield, Mansfield, answer me, for 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


77 


heaven’s sake, if you are in there,” shouted the 
young man. 

But all was silent as the grave in that closed 
room. 

“ The door must be opened and the worst 
known,” said Harvey, ringing the bell. 

The housekeeper, after some moments of 
tantalizing delay, appeared in answer to the 
summons. 

“ Did you ring, sir?” 

“ Ring, woman ? Why every one in the 
whole place must have heard me.” 

“ And what do you please to want, sir ?” 

“ I want this door opened ; I believe my 
friend to be in there.” 

“ Goodness me, sir ; what makes you think 
that ? ’E ain’t inside or ’e’d ’ve ’eard me knock 
when I brought ’is ’ot water hup. ’E’s a dredful 
hearly riser is the Colonel. When I knocks, 
sir, there his few as can’t ’ear me,” and the 
woman gave a loud rat-a-tat-tat at the door. 

“ There, you see, sir, ’e ain’t in there ; I told 
you so.” 

“ But the door is locked from the inside and 
and the key is in the lock,” explained Harvey. 

“His it? Well, that’s a rum go,” replied 
the housekeeper, with a curious look on her 
not overclean face. “Doors, sir, can’t lock 


78 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


theirselves, especially from the hinside,” she 
added, with a sagacious nod, “ and you may de- 
pend upon it, sir, that the Colonel is hinside 
after all. Now, if the door ’d bin locked from 
the houtside, even if the key ’adn’t bin in the 
lock, I should Ve said as ’ow the Colonel was 
hout and not hin ; but seeing as ’ow ” 



HE STRUCK A LIGHT AND LOOKED THROUGH THE 
KEYHOLE. 

Harvey cut her short and requested her to 
get something with which to force the door. 

" Somethin’ to force the door with ! Bless 
you, sir, it don’t want much forcing. These 
doors is that rotten and shaky that I expects 
every puff of wind to blow ’em horf their 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


79 


(£ 


)> 


’inges. A little shove with your shoulder, sir, 
and it’ll bust hopen at once.” 

Harvey applied his shoulder to the door, and 
in a little while it gave way. 

No sound came from the inner room as the 
door swung back. “Was Mansfield there. 



THE FIREPLACE WAS STREWN WITH CHARRED PAPER. 

after all ? If so, was he alive or dead ?” were 
the thoughts that coursed through the young 
man’s mind as he entered the room. 

For his answer he saw his friend lying on the 
bed, still and rigid as if in death. A cry es- 


80 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


caped his lips, which was taken up by the house- 
keeper with vigor. 

“ Poor gentleman, ’e’s dead, sure enough,” 
she said. “ Only last night as hever was I ’eard 
the death-watch tick. I knew as ’ow it wasn’t 
tickin’ for nothink, but I didn’t think it was 
meant for the poor Colonel. No, that I didn’t,” 
and the good woman wiped away a tear with a 
corner of her apron. “ But only fancy, sir, of 
’im a puttin’ on ’is shroud before dyin’.” 

She pointed to the motionless form of Mans- 
field, which was covered with the long, white 
robe he had worn while evoking the Slave of 
Darkness. 

By this time Harvey was by his friend’s bed- 
side. He lifted the left arm ; it was stiff as 
if in death. He put his ear to his heart ; there 
was no sign of life. He tried to lift the eye- 
lids, but they were set fast. Yet the young 
doctor did not believe his friend to be dead. 
There was all the outward appearance of death, 
but, all the same, the body looked more like 
that of one in whom life was suspended than 
one in whom life was extinct. 

Something seemed to tell him that his friend, 
although absolutely insensible to all around him, 
was not actually dead, but in a deep trance. 

As he was examining the body his eyes 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


81 


alighted on a note pinned to the breast of the 
long white robe. 

Harvey unfastened it and read its contents, 
which ran as follows : 

I am not dead, but am merely sleeping. Do 
not move me or disturb me in any way. The 
packet I have left in the next room addressed 
to my friend Dr. Harvey will explain every- 
thing. I place myself in Dr. Harvey’s charge, 
and I wish him to take possession of the keys 
of my room. 

Sept. 6, 1 8 — . Lionel Mansfield. 

“ That packet ; I wonder what it contains ?” 
thought Harvey. “ There is something strange 
about the whole thing ; the mystery increases 
instead of diminishing, and this,” taking the 
bulky envelope out of his pocket, “ is appar- 
ently the key to it.” 

He long to tear open the cover and read its 
contents then and there, but his friend’s instruc- 
tions were imperative and he restrained himself. 

“ Not to be opened till the 20th of Septem- 
ber,” he muttered to himself. “Well, old 
fellow, your wishes shall be strictly carried out.” 

The floor and fireplace, as in the outer room, 
was strewn with curious pieces of burned paper. 

After giving instructions for some one to sit 


83 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


by Mansfield’s bedside while he was absent, 
Harvey took his departure. 


CHAPTER IX. 

On the morning of Sept. 7, the day follow- 
ing the attempt on Miss Hardcastle’s life, an 
extraordinary discovery was made. 

Rim Dass, a young Hindoo, studying for the 
the bar, living at 523 Colville street, Bayswater, 
was found dead in his room, under circum- 
stances which, according to the newspapers, 
gave rise to the gravest suspicions of foul play. 

The police were most reticent about the 
matter, and the landlady of the house where 
the young man lodged refused to be interviewed. 

The public had therefore to content them- 
selves with the general surmises contained in the 
newspapers ; and the inquest was accordingly 
awaited with great excitement, for somehow or 
other it had got abroad that the death of the 
Hindoo was connected with the recent mysteri- 
ous tragedies — in fact, that a dagger, apparently 
the one with which the previous murders had 
been committed, was found stuck through his 
heart. 


MAEKKD FOE A VICTIM.' 


83 


Meanwhile the state of Col. Mansfield at- 
tracted considerable attention, and was the sub- 
ject of much discussion in the press. 

Some of the most eminent physiologists had 
visited Mansfield and, contrary to the sleeping 
man’s express instructions, tried a variety of 
experiments upon him, but without arousing 



A DISCUSSION AFTER THE INQUEST ON 
THE HINDOO. 


the slightest sign of animation. They were 
convinced that life was not extinct, but not one 
of the scientists had in his experience ever come 
across a case of so deep a trance. 

It was decided that Mansfield should remain 
where he was, as it was feared that removal 
might snap the slender thread which bound him 
to life. Dr. Harvey undertook the charge of his 


84 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


friend, and had him carefully looked after ; but 
from sunrise to sunset the condition of the 
sleeeper was precisely the same, and the young 
doctor watched in vain for the slightest sign of 
returning vitality. 

In the old days such a subject would have 
been buried alive. 

All manner of contradictory rumors were set 
afloat concerning Mansfield, some of which 
sought to connect him in some unaccountable 
way with the dead Hindoo. 

It was strange, it was argued, that Mansfield, 
who apparently alone knew that Miss Hard- 
castle was to be the next person attacked, should 
at the very time when his evidence might be of 
the greatest service be lying senseless in a 
trance. Besides, what was the meaning of put- 
ting on that curious-fashioned white dress ? 
These and other perplexing questions were 
asked over and over again without receiving a 
solution, and the public waited impatiently for 
the time when the sleeping man should wake 
from his trance. Some mystically inclined 
people, who had dabbled in Theosophy, threw 
out vague hints that Mansfield was indirectly 
if not directly implicated in the recent murders. 
He, they hinted, was a member of a band of 
modern Thugs, whose mission it was to slaugh- 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


85 


ter certain women of a peculiar affinity in order 
to obtain possession of their souls. But to 
what purpose the said souls were to be applied 
they omitted to state. 

R^m Dass, they argued, was probably aware 
of Mansfield’s connection with this mysterious 
body and had been slain by the Colonel’s magic 
or had been goaded to commit suicide in order 
that he might not give evidence against him. 

“ But,” replied those to whom this incredu- 
lous story was related, “ it is proved beyond 
doubt that Col. Mansfield only returned to Eng- 
land on the morning of the loth of August, 
and it is therefore entirely out of the question 
that he could have a hand in the previous 
murders.” 

“That may be,” said the knowing ones; 
“ but you may depend upon it that he had some- 
thing to do with the attempt at Miss Hard- 
castle’s life.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Why, he took every precaution to save the 
the young lady’s life ; and if it had not been 
for the charm he placed round her neck she 
would undouDtedly have been killed like the 
rest. Murderers do not, as a rule, first protect 
those whom they have decided to slay.” 

“ Quite so. In ordinary cases this would 


86 


MAEK.BD FOB A VICTIM. 


hold good, but I think this is not an ordinary 
case. If our deductions are correct, Mansfield 
was deputed by the chief of the council of the 
band to which he belongs to slay Miss Hard- 
castle. He was chosen on account of his 
friendship with the family and the easiness of 
his access to her. But his heart misgave him 
at the last moment, and he gave her the locket 
which was to guard her against the threatening 
danger, the task allotted to him being handed 
over to some one else.” 

“ But why this compunction on his part? 
If the man is, as you intimate, a member of a 
gang scarcely human in their thirst for blood, 
why should he elect to spare this particular 
young lady ?” 

“There’s the rub,” replied the wiseacres. 
“ Miss Hardcastle is Mansfield daughter. 
Years ago Mansfield was in love with her 
mother. He was poor and went to India and 
she married — she was forced by her parents into 
the marriage it was said at the time — young 
Hardcastle. Now Evelyn Hardcastle is the 
very image of the Evelyn Caruthers Mansfield 
was in love with. Her marriage with Hard- 
castle very nearly broke his heart, we believe, 
and he has remained true to his first love 
through life. This will probably account for 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


87 


his unwillingness to take the life of the daugh- 
ter of the woman he loved.” 

This theory was not, however, generally ac- 
cepted. Col. Mansfield was known to be a hu- 
mane man and one not at all likely to associate 
himself with a band of murderers. Besides, it 
was argued, what object was there to be gained 
by such an alliance ? 

To which his detractors would reply that, 
having joined the Brotherhood, he was bound, 
under penalty of death, to carry out any mis- 
sion, no matter how murderous, that might be 
intrusted to him. It was further alleged that 
his Brotherhood was far more exciting than 
the Nihilists, and that no one who had broken 
his vow had been known to escape their ven- 
geance. 

“But what proof have you that such a 
Brotherhood exists ? And if it does exist, 
where are its headquarters ?” some people 
would ask. 

“ Of the existence of such a Brotherhood 
there is no question,” would reply those who 
professed to know all about it, “ and its head- 
quarters are somewhere in India, where it is 
not exactly known. 

“ But, granting this, what proof have you 


88 


MARKED FOB A VICTIM. 


that Col. Mansfield belongs or has ever be- 
longed to such a secret society ?” 

This direct question was not so easy to an- 
swer, and refuge was taken in general asser- 
tions. 



It was well known in India, it was said, that 
there was something uncanny about Mans- 
field ; that he periodically disappeared, no one 
knew where or how, and that he was quite an 
adept in the art of magic. 


MASKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


89 


It was not the first time, moreover, that he 
had been in a trance, which state, it was as- 
serted, he could assume at will. Indeed, was 
there hot a brother officer of his who swore 
that he had on one occasion actually seen the 
spiritual double of the Colonel, accompanied 
by other spectral forms, enter the very room 
where his (Mansfield’s) body lay stiff and mo- 
tionless on a rug? It was an undoubted fact 
that the officer in question was perfectly sober 
at the time, and the reverse of superstitious. 


CHAPTER X. 

These statements were designated by the 
sceptical as old women’s stories, and they re- 
fused to condemn Mansfield upon such flimsy 
evidence. 

The police attached no importance to the 
various rumors concerning Mansfield, who lay 
in his room utterly oblivious of what was be- 
ing said concerning him. 

The inquest upon the body of the Hindoo, 
Rim Dass, was held in due course. 

The landlady of the house where he lodged, 
a widow, Mrs. Parker by name, gave evidence 
as to the finding of the body. 


90 


MARKED FOB A VICTIM.' 


The young man had, she said, lodged with 
her since the beginning of the year. He was a 
very quiet, studious person, giving little trouble. 

Asked if the deceased had many visitors, she 
replied that no one, with the exception of a 
gentleman who had called on the afternoon of 
the 5th, had visited him the whole time he had 
stayed with her. 

She described the visitor as a tall, dignified, 
gentlemanly looking person of about fifty. 
He, to her mind, looked like an officer, and he 
had a sword-cut down his right cheek. 

This part of her evidence caused a sensation, 
as the person described was evidently Col. 
Mansfield. 

Had, as far as she was aware, anything in 
the nature of a quarrel taken place at this in- 
terview ? 

To which question she replied, with pardona- 
ble sharpness, that it was not her business to 
listen outside her lodgers’ doors to hear what 
was going on inside, but, as far as she was 
aware, nothing in the shape of a quarrel had 
taken place. Indeed, to tell the truth, neither 
she nor her servants heard any “ words” what- 
ever. The gentleman who called did not, 
moreover, stay very long — perhaps not more 
than a quarter of an hour in all. 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


91 


She then gave a description of the finding of 
the body. It was in the sitting-room, lying on 
the floor, and the sight gave her a shock she 
would never forget. 

Here the witness perceptibly shuddered. 
Asked to describe the position of the body, she 
expressed her unwillingness to do so. The 
sight was such “ an awful one,” she said, that 
she would rather not speak about it. 

As medical evidence was forthcoming upon 
this point, the question was not pressed. 

The witness, asked when she last saw the 
deceased, informed the Court that it was about 
lo o’clock on the night of the 5th. 

“ And where was he, pray, the whole of the 
time between the night of the 5th and the 
morning of the 7th when you found his dead 
body ?” asked the Coroner. 

“ In his room, I suppose,” she replied. 

“ But did it not strike you as strange that a 
man should stay in his room for thirty-four 
hours without moving from it ?” 

“ Not at all, sir ; he had often done it before. 
Once a month he used to lock himself up in 
his room in this way, taking nothing to eat. 
It was always his express wish that he should 
not be disturbed, and 1 thought that such days 
with him were fast days, and, knowing how 


93 


MARKED EOB A VICTIM. 


u 


strict these Eastern people are about their re- 
ligious observances, it didn’t strike me as being 
in any way odd.” 

“ You say he kept his room in this fashion 
once a month. Do you remember the exact 
dates ?” asked the Coroner. 



“ Certainly, sir,” replied Mrs. Parker, pro- 
ducing an account book. “ Every date is 
noted ; for on those days he took, as I have 
already said, no refreshments of any kind.” 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


93 


She handed the book to the Coroner, who 
looked carefully through it. 

“ It is very strange, he said at the conclusion 
of his examination. 

“The first entry is, I see, nth to 12th Feb- 
ruary; the second, nth to 13th March; the 
third, nth to nth April; the fourth, nth to 
nth May; the fifth, 9th to loth June; the 
sixth, the 9th to loth July ; the seventh and 
last, the 7th to 8th August. 

“Now these dates exactly coincide with 
those upon which the murders were committed. 
It may, of course, be only a coincidence ; but 
it is certainly a very curious one.” 

Needless to say the Coroner’s remarks 
caused a profound sensation. 

Her lodger, Mrs. Parker pointed out, had 
never kept so long in his room before, and on 
becoming alarmed at getting no response to the 
maid-servant’s knocks, she had ordered the door 
to be burst open. The door, she added, was 
fastened from the inside, the key being still 
in the lock. 

She at once, she added, sent for the doctor, 
who sent for the police, and they made a care- 
ful examination of the rooms. 

She was certain that no one had had access to 
her lodger’s rooms during the time stated, and 


94 


MARKED FOE A YICTIM.’ 


she declared that both the windows of the bed- 
room and sitting-room, which were on the 
ground floor looking on to the street, were 
fastened. 

The next witness was Dr. Tilbury. He re- 
lated how he had been called in by Mrs. Parker. 
He had come at once ; but the deceased was 
already dead — had, in fact, been dead some 
hours. He had never seen a more ghastly 
sight. The body was lying upon its back ; the 
legs were drawn up, and the arms were strangely 
contorted. The eyes were wide open, and the 
expression in them showed the agony the de- 
ceased must have suffered. The lips were bit- 
ten through, and a good deal of foam was mixed 
with the blood. 

Right through his heart was driven a dagger. 
It was not an ordinary dagger, but was of In- 
dian manufacture and shaped like A serpent, 
with a fine, long point. To it was attached a 
slip of paper and a sealed envelope. There 
was some writing upon it, but the writing was 
in characters that he did not understand. The 
dagger and the sealed envelope were taken 
possession of by the police. The dagger pro- 
duced was undoubtedly the same. Asked if he 
knew the meaning of the words raised in Hin- 
dustani characters on the back of the serpent 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


95 


just below the neck, he said he did not. They 
appeared to be similar in character to the writ- 
ing on the envelope and on the slip of paper. 

In answer to further questions he stated that 
he carefully examined the body, which, save 
for a loin cloth, was naked, and found a deep 



THE PECULIAR DAGGER WITH THE UNIQUE 
INSCRIPTION. 


burn on the breast about two inches in diameter. 
It, in his opinion, had been made for the pur- 
pose of obliterating some tattoo marks which 
were probably on the breast of the deceased. 
It might have been done with the poker, which 
showed signs of having been heated. There 


96 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


were no other marks on the body, and death 
arose from the stab through the heart. The 
flow of blood had been internal, as only a small 
clot of blood was on the body. It was his 
opinion that the death blow had been self- 
inflicted. 

Dr. Harvey was then called, and he stated 
that the dagger had been handed to him, and 
that he had carefully examined the poison it 
contained ; it was a vegetable poison unknown 
in this country before the 12th of February. 

“ The date of the murder of Florrie Grey,” 
said the foreman of the jury, who happened to 
be a chemist. 

“ Yes, and there is no question that the poi- 
son the weapon contained is precisely the same 
as that used in each of the recent murders, and 
that all these murders were committed with this 
very dagger.” 

Intense excitement prevailed in the room 
when Dr. Harvey made this statement. 

“ Upon what grounds do you base this be- 
lief?” asked the Coroner. 

“ The shape of the wound is precisely the 
same in each case,” he replied, “and there is 
not, I should think, in all England another 
weapon like this.” And he took up the 


MAKKED FOR A VICTIM. 


97 


curiously fashioned weapon which lay upon the 
Coroner’s table. 

“ One more question, Dr. Harvey,” said the 
Coroner. “ You, I believe, saw Col. Mansfield 
on the evening of the 4th — at what hour was 
that ?” 

“ I saw him at about 6.30 and he left at 7.” 

“ Did he say anything to you about the de- 
ceased — that he had been to see him, or that 
he knew him ?” 

“ Not a word.” 

" Do you believe the wound was self- 
inflicted ?” 

“I do ; most certainly.” 

“ That is all, thank you. Doctor.” 

Harvey retired. 

P. C. Robinson deposed how, from informa- 
tion received, he went to 523 Colville street, 
where he found the body of the deceased. 
This witness added nothing to what is already 
known, and Inspector Kinks, of Scotland Yard, 
was called. 

The case, he stated, had been placed in his 
hands. He had made a thorough examination 
of the apartments. The windows were fastened, 
and there was no other way of getting into the 
rooms excepting through the door, which had 
been forced. 


98 


MAEKBD POE A VICTIM.' 


The body of deceased was naked save for a 
small black loin cloth. There was no jewelry 
of any kind upon it. On searching the grate, 
which contained a heap of ashes, he found some 
charred ends of what appeared to be bank-notes 
(pieces of burnt paper produced). 



“ The room did not show any traces of a 
struggle having taken place. Everything ap- 
peared to be in its proper order, and the state 
of the dust-covered windows precluded the 
possibility of any one having either entered or 
departed that way. 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


99 


I made a most careful examination of both 
rooms. The drawers had been emptied of their 
contents and the clothes of the deceased were 
torn in strips. Everything belonging to him 
which had any value appeared to have been 
either burnt or destroyed.” 

“ The dagger and the note attached to it were 
taken away by you,” said the Coroner, address- 
ing the Inspector. “ Have you had the inscrip- 
tion on the dagger translated ?” 

“Yes, sir, I have the translation here.” 

The witness took out from his pocket-book 
a slip of paper and handed it to the Coroner. 

“ The sentence is in Hindustani, I see : 

“ Munsha Malik ke furmuburdar, 
and means 

“ I do the Master’s will.” 

“ And the letter and the slip of paper at- 
tached to the dagger ; has the writing thereon 
been deciphered yet ?” 

“ Here, sir, is the slip of paper, and the 
translation is attached,” replied the Inspector, 
handing two pieces of paper to the Coroner. 

“ ‘ Malik ke Gholam hoon’ 
is the sentence, and the meaning of it appears 
to be : 

‘ I am the slave of the Master/ ” 


100 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


said the Coroner, looking attentively at the 
writing before him. “ And the letter, what 
has been made of that ?” he added, after a 
pause. 

“The expert who has been doing the trans- 
lations says that the handwriting on the slip of 



paper and on the envelope is undoubtedly that 
of the same person.” 

“To whom is the envelope addressed?” 

“That is the question, sir. I have a rough 
translation of it here.” He opened his pocket- 
book and turned over several leaves until he 


MAKKBD FOE A VICTIM.' 


101 


came to the one he wanted. “ It runs some- 
thing like the following : 

“ ‘To my destroyer (or to the one who has 
caused me to be destroyed) — the Brother of 
the Light. From the Slave of the Master of 
Darkness.’ ” 

“And what does the letter contain?” 

“That, sir, is what hasn’t yet been found 
out. The translator is at work at it now. It 
completely puzzles him, and he can’t make 
much sense out of it at present. It’s all about 
masters and slaves, black brothers and white 
brothers, and other unintelligible things, which 
makes the translator believe that the man who 
wrote it must have been raving mad at the 
time.” 

“This is most important evidence,” replied 
the Coroner, “ and we must adjourn the in- 
quiry for the attendance of the translator. 
Meanwhile, have you any clue as to the iden- 
tification of this so-called destroyer — this 
Brother of the Light ?” 

“ From information received, we believe it 
to be Col. Mansfield, the gentleman who called 
on the deceased on the afternoon of the 5th. 
This gentleman is now lying in a trance at his 
rooms in the Temple, and instructions have 
been given to have him closely watched.” 


103 


MARKED FOB A VICTIM. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The evening following the inquest Harvey 
and Evelyn Hardcastle were seated together 



HARVEY AND EVELYN WERE IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

in the drawing-room discussing the extraordi- 
nary events of the preceding days. 

“Now, dear,” said Evelyn, “do tell me how 
Uncle Lai is.” 

“ There is no change in him,” replied the 
young man. “ He still lies in the same condi- 
tion. It is the most remarkable case of trance 
I have either seen or heard of.” 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM.' 


103 


“ I hope, dear, there is nothing to fear,” re- 
marked Evelyn, in some alarm. 

“ I think not,” he replied assuringly ; “ but 
what perplexes us most is his absolute insensi- 
bility, and it is impossible to tell when he is 
likely to recover consciousness.” 

“ I hope every care is taken of him.” 

“ Certainly, dear ; some one is with him 
night and day, and, as you know, I devote 
every spare moment I have to sitting by his 
bedside.” 

“ I wonder, Fred, what the letter he left be- 
hind contains. I am most curious about it, 
aren’t you ?” 

“Yes, most curious, and I feel confident 
that its contents are of the utmost importance, 
and that they will give a solution of this terri- 
ble mystery.” 

“ When is the letter to be opened ?” 

“ Not till the 20th.” 

“Why, that is another whole week, for to- 
day is only the 14th. I am sure I couldn’t wait 
so long. Don’t your fingers itch to open it ?” 

“ Perhaps ; but I manage to keep the itching 
under control,” answered Harvey, with a laugh. 
“ Mansfield’s instructions are definite on this 
point, and I mean to carry out his wishes to 
the letter.” 


104 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


“ Of course, dear, I wouldn’t have you do 
otherwise. Uncle Lai’s instructions must be 
sacred in our eyes. Dear Uncle Lai, if it 
hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t be alive at this 
moment,” she added with a shudder. “ See, 
Fred, I always wear Uncle Lai’s talisman, and 
it shall never leave my neck night or day.” 
She withdrew from her breast the heart-shaped 
locket with the scar upon it where the dagger 
had struck it. ^ 

At this moment a servant brought in the 
Graphic and handed it to her young mistress. 

Evelyn was turning over the pages when she 
suddenly gave a surpressed shriek and let the 
paper fall on the ground, 

“ It is he ! it is he !” she said, her face blanch- 
ing and her eyes gazing wildly across the room. 

“ My darling, what does this mean ? What 
ails you ?” cried her lover, in alarm, taking her 
in his arms. 

“ Oh, Fred, it is horrible ! That face brings 
the terrible scene before me again,” she replied, 
pointing to a portrait of the dead Hindoo 
which the paper contained. 

“ Be calm, dear ; you are not strong yet, and 
any fresh shock to your nerves may make you 
seriously ill. For my sake, my darling, be 
calm. Y ou have nothing to fear with me by 
you,” 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


105 


He folded his arms about her and showered 
kisses on her face. 

“ I do not fear anything with you by me, 
dear ; but that face” (and she shuddered vio- 
lently) — “ it is that of the one who attempted 
my life. And that dagger,” she added, point- 
ing to a sketch of the weapon found stuck in 
the body of Rim Dass — “it is the one he 
aimed at my heart.” 

The same evening that Evelyn Hardcastle 
recognized in the portrait of Rim Dass the 
likeness of the one who had attempted her life, 
and in the sketch of the dagger the weapon 
which had been aimed at her heart, Dr. Harvey 
received a translation of the letter the dead 
man had left behind in his room. 

It was a most curious document, as has been 
stated, written in Hindustani, and ran as fol- 
lows : 

Eh feringhee ! — ba nam Bhaie-i-Rochum tujh 
per hazar lanet in. In ne apna jadoo ke zor se 
mara hath rokhluya ! 

Unki Jan, tu ne buchaiya, purunth mujhe 
donon jahin se bigara. Gholam apna malik- 
ko-jawab dena hai. 

Nao chotfen sidheegaydr tera futteh ne mujh 
ko karab keeya. 

Eh feringhee ! malaum, buchogee nahim ba 


106 


MAEKED FOE A VICTIM. 


mooqabilla mera azeeyut, tera-i dukh kaisa 
painee na hoga. 

Jis malik ke Gholam main boon kirsee oon 
m^n se jo unke k‘am men dukhil bain, chorta 
nahin. 

Main ke Rim Dass, chila ka kai chooka boon 
— tuj per am tera log per laneten o surap 
bumesba rebta raben. 

Tbe following is tbe English translation 
thereof : 

The Night of the New Moon, Sept. 6, i8 — . 

Accursed — a thousand times be thou, O for- 
eign Brother of the Light ! By the power of 
thy magic thou hast destroyed me body and 
soul (literally, ruined me for this world and the 
next). For to my Master must I, his slave, 
make answer. 

Nine times did I strike true, but thy victory 
hast undone me. 

But O accursed one ! thou shalt not escape. 
My tortures in comparison to what thou wilt 
suffer will be sweet. 

The Master, whose slave I am, spares none 
who interferes with his work. 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


107 


I Rim Dass, the disciple of the Master, have 
spoken ; and upon you and your people may 
my curses ever remain.” 

After this theie could be no doubt that it 
was Ram Dass who had committed the nine 



murders and who had attempted to kill Miss 
Hardcastle. 

He, it was argued, had in a fit of despair 
taken his own life after cursing Col. Mansfield 
(for it was clear that the letter was intended 
for the Colonel) ; this was the finding of the 
jury at the adjourned inquest. 


103 


MARKED FOK A VICTIM. 


Ram Dass was buried in a pauper’s grave. 
He had died without leaving a solitary six- 
pence behind, and his books and other few 
effects were seized by the landlady, to whom he 
was several pounds in debt. 

R^m Dass’s letter, although it proved him 
to have been the assassin, threw no light upon 
the motive for these atrocious crimes. 

It was, in fact, to the general public as great 
a mystery as ever. 

“Who was this mysterious Master whose 
slave this wretch professed to be ?” people 
asked themselves. 

The dagger claimed to be “ the doer of the 
Master’s will.” But who was this Master and 
what was his will ? 

No satisfactory answer was given to these 
queries, and the wisest of men shook their 
heads in despair. 

Col. Mansfield, every one said, was the only 
man who could throw any light upon the mys- 
tery, and he was still lying in a trance from 
which it was generally thought he would never 
awake. 

One thing, public opinion — or rather that 
section of it which had rushed to condemn him 
— now veered round and protested that the 
gallant Colonel had been grossly misjudged. 


MAEKBD FOE A VICTIM. 


109 


a 


t 


Instead of being an associate of murderers 
and the member of a gang of modern Thugs, 
he was a paragon of virtue. How, they ar- 
gued, would Miss Hardcastle have fared if it 
had not been for him ? His hand and his alone 
had saved her from the assassin’s knife and had 
presumably brought about the destruction of 
the murderer. The reign of terror was at an 
end and society could breathe freely once more. 
And who had brought this about — who but 
Col. Mansfield ? 

Col. Mansfield was, folk said, everything 
that was mysterious and uncanny, but he was 
a noble-minded man all the same, and employed 
his mysterious powers to a good purpose ; and 
people began to fear lest the dead Hindoo’s 
curse’s had taken effect, and that he would never 
again return to life and consciousness. 

It had got about that the Colonel had left a 
certain packet behind which was not to be 
opened till a certain day. 

“What could this mysterious packet con- 
tain ?” said people one to another. 


What? 


110 


MARKfiD ROR A VICTIM. 


CHAPTER XII. 

COL. Mansfield’s strange manuscript. 

It was the morning of the 20th of Septem- 
ber. Dr. Harvey sat in his study reading the 
letter which Col. Mansfield had left addressed 
to him. It was an extraordinary document, 
consisting of about twenty pages of closely 
written manuscript. 

I give-the full text : 

‘‘The Morning of Sept, 6, 1888. 

“ My Dear Harvey : 

“ The fears I expressed concerning the prob- 
able selection of Evelyn as the next victim 
have been realized. I have just had an inter- 
view with the would-be assassin. You will at 
once say, why did I not detain him and hand 
him over to justice ? But such was not in my 
power. I know my goddaughter to be safe ; 
for the locket which I placed round her neck 
will protect her from the hand of the murderer. 
It is a talisman which never fails. On more 
than one occasion it has saved my life when 
similarly menaced. 

“ Y ou will want to know what motive the 
assassin — who, by the time you read the con- 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


Ill 


tents of this letter will be known to you — could 
have in attempting the life of the one who is so 
dear to both of us. 

“ It is a long story, but I will in as few words 
as possible endeavor to make the matter clear 
to you. 

“ The murderer is what is called out in India 
an adept ; and he belongs to a community 
called the Brethren of Darkness. This com- 
munity is ruled over by a Master and a Council 
of Twelve. With the first new moon of the 
new year some one is enrolled as an adept ; and 
the man R^m Dass — you will have discovered 
his name by this — was initiated a little more 
than twelve months ago. I knew him in Cal- 
cutta about three years ago. At that time he 
was a student of the occult sciences, and the re- 
sult of his investigations interested me not a 
little. Then he had not joined the Black 
Brotherhood ; and when I called on him yester- 
day I was quite unaware of his connection with 
the recent murders. But his complicity there- 
with has since been revealed to me. 

“ On his initiation he was deputed by the 
Master to do a certain horrible thing — namely, 
to take the lives of thirteen women of a certain 
affinity. When you pointed out that the mur- 
dered women bore a strong physical resemblance 


112 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


to each other, and that each one had been mur- 
dered on her birthday, that birthday falling on 
the day of the new moon, I at once correctly 
guessed the motive of these murders. But, 
while such things are of frequent occurrence 
in the East, I was puzzled to understand their 
taking place in the West ; but you will find 
that the murdered persons, although in no way 
related to one another, were descendants of 
those who had lived in India, while Evelyn’s 
grandfather was, as you well know, a distin- 
guished Anglo-Indian officer. 

“ As I have said, murders of this kind occur 
pretty frequently in India, where many of the 
deaths ascribed to snake bite are in reality the 
work of the Black Brethren. 

“Why, you will ask, should these Brethren 
wish to take the lives of those who had done 
them no injury. To which I answer that the 
Master and Brothers of Darkness are human 
only in shape ; at heart they are fiends, and they 
live only to do evil deeds. As a part of their 
compact with Siva the Destroyer they must 
offer up at least thirteen souls a year. The 
victims must be young, beautiful in mind, pure 
in body and virgin in soul ; by this I mean hav- 
ing souls which have not been reincarnated. 

“It is only those of this particular affinity 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


113 


who will be accepted, and when victims fail in 
the East they are sought for in the West. 

“ The reasons why Rim Dass selected his vic- 
tims in London was through his taking up his 
residence here in order to pursue his studies 
for the bar. He had to kill thirteen people in 
his first year as an adept, and had he remained 
in India he would, of course, have had to find 
his affinities out there. 

“You will probably be aware of a Hindoo’s 
aversion to shedding blood, and you will 
doubtless say : ‘ Why were these murders com- 
mitted with a dagger ? ’ 

“ This dagger, I reply, is no ordinary weap- 
on ; it is endowed with marvellous attributes, 
and slays almost of its own accord. For, 
strange as it may seem to you, the hand which 
holds the dagger is that of the adept’s astral 
form and not of his actual body, which ac- 
counts for the going and coming of the mur- 
derer unseen. The only thing which could 
have been visible is the dagger which alone is 
material. 

“You often spoke to me about the strange 
appearance of the death wound and the un- 
known character of the poison used, and you 
very properly surmised that the weapon em- 
ployed was a fine stiletto which pierced the 


114 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


heart, the poison stopping the outward flow of 
blood beyond the first spurt. The first spurt 
of blood was the murderer’s offering to Vishnu, 
who, according to the doctrines of the Black 
Brotherhood, takes possession of the spirits of 
the murdered women for the purpose of rein- 
carnation. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ I KNOW you will view with amazement my 
statements,” continued Col. Mansfield in his 
extraordinary manuscript, “ if you do not alto- 
gether question my sanity, but what I am tell- 
ing you is, believe me, the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth. 

“To return to R^m Dass. I have already 
explained to you that it was not within my 
power to detain him. All I could do was to 
make the one whose life he threatened safe 
against his attack, and this I did. I know that 
he will fail, and that his failure will mean his 
destruction. 

“ Failure on such a mission has but one pun- 
ishment — that of death. He will go in astral 
form to report to the Master and the Brethren 
the result of his murderous attempt. They 
will judge him and condemn him to death. 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


115 


First, the sign of his initiation — a cresent with 
a black serpent trailing across it like a bar sin- 
ister — which is branded on his breast, will be 
burnt out with a searing iron ; and then he will 
die by his own hand. What happens in the 
astral form will be repeated with the physical 
form. FI is soul will also be condemned to 
undergo a certain punishment : but what that 
punishment will be I cannot at this moment 
tell. 

“The man is beyond human justice by this. 
He cannot escape his fate any more than he 
could have evaded the work of the mission 
upon which he was sent. 

“ You will want to know how I know all this, 
and what was the particular virtue of the talis- 
man which I hung round Evelyn’s neck. 

“It would take more time than I have now 
to spare to explain this matter thoroughly to 
you. Suffice it to say that there are two 
Brotherhoods of what you in the West are 
pleased to call the Occult. One is the Broth- 
erhood of Light and the other of Darkness ; 
and while the latter endeavors to debase man- 
kind and arouse all the evil that is in them, the 
former seeks to spiritualize man and to lead 
him towards higher and nobler things. Be- 
tween the two Brotherhoods there is a perpet- 


116 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM/ 


ual war, the Brothers of Darkness seeking to 
destroy those whom the Brothers of Light en- 
deavor to save. The Brothers of Light, in 
virtue of the purer life they lead and the 
greater knowledge they have of the active 
forces of Nature, are able to achieve greater 
results in the realms of the Occult than those 
of Darkness, but as there is as a general thing 
more evil in man than good, the Brothers of 
Darkness are enabled to lead more souls to de- 
struction than those of the Light are able to 
save. In this matter the victory, while man is 
as he is, is with those of Darkness. 

“ For my part, you will doubtless long since 
have guessed that I am a member of the 
Brotherhood of Light. 

“ It happened in this way : 

“ Ten years ago, when I was in Thibet, I 
came across a Brother who initiated me. The 
method of initiation is a secret, and I cannot 
here explain it. 

“ I remained with this Brother for close 
upon two years, sharing the same cave with 
him and living even as he did. 

“In this way I made myself master of many 
of the treasured secrets of nature, and redis- 
covered what this material world has long 
since forgotten, the connecting links between 
man and the elements. 


MARKED FOE A VlCriM. 


117 


“In the end I was admitted into the sacred 
presence of the Master and enrolled as a 
Brother. Much more of the unknown was 
then made known to me, and I was given the 
power of separating my soul from my body. 

“The human form is, after all, but the case 
which contains the soul. Destroy the shell 
and the spirit escapes and seeks another habita- 
tion. This even you, sceptic that you are, 
cannot deny. All people, no matter how civ- 
ilized or how savage they may be, believe in 
the existence of a soul in some shape or other. 
But while the body — the outer covering of 
man — is known in every particular, -how many 
have been able to analyze and dissect the soul ? 
Your materialist, with dissecting knife in hand, 
cuts and rips the inanimate dead, and says with 
an air of triumph : ‘ see, I have laid bare every 
nerve ; here is the brain, there is the heart, 
where is soul?’ 

“ Of course the soul is not there. To search 
in a dead body for Life is only to find Death. 
When the power of living is taken from the 
body the spirit at once leaves it. It does not 
die ; it merely escapes, and in due course finds 
another earthly shell in which to reside. 

“ To find the soul, therefore, you must search 
for it in the living and not in the dead. 

“ On the night of my being made an adept 


118 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


I lay on my back on a white marble bench of 
a Buddhist temple thousands of feet above the 
level of the sea. The temple was roofless and 
open to the sky, and above me shone the 
bright stars, and the rays of the full moon fell 
across my face. In a little while I slept, and 
then a strange thing happened. My body 



grew stiff and all physical movement was sus- 
pended. But while my body remained mo- 
tionless and connected with life by the merest 
thread, my brain was additionally active. I 
could think and see. It seemed to me that 
my motionless form was permeable, and that, 
like the earthenware jugs of the Nile, from 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM.’ 


119 


which ooze the water they contain, it was af- 
fording egress to my imprisoned soul. 

“Then my spirit, having freed itself, stood 
before me, clothed with my shape, but as im- 
material as a shadow. There stood my soul 
contemplating me, and there lay I, observing 
my soul. Presently my spirit took wings, as 
it were, and passed upward into the starry night. 
Then I seemed to be no longer lying on the 
marble bench ; my thought and sight went 
with my astral body. I, in this astral form, 
soared above the earth. Space was annihilated, 
and I, with the quickness of an electric flash, 
could appear wheresoever I willed. 

“ Since then I have been able to detach my 
soul from my body at will. 

“ In this state of suspended animation you 
will find me. I shall be as one dead, but not 
with the death of decay, for the spark of life 
will be still within my body, but the spirit, the 
imperishable soul, will be absent. 

“ The Brothers of Darkness will seek to re- 
venge themselves on me for thwarting their 
plans, and the order will go forth that I must 
die. Emissaries will be sent to take my life, 
for my earthly form will no longer be protected, 
by the talisman I received from the hands of 
the Master. 

“ They will come expecting to find me un- 


120 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


protected, but I shall disappoint them. Ere 
danger can threaten me I shall have separated 
my soul from my body and have journeyed to 
the Dominion of Light, where the Master of 
Darkness has no power over me. The mes- 
sengers of Darkness will not molest my body ; 
it is my soul they want, and that, as I have said, 
will be absent. 

“ With the full moon the power of the Mas- 
ter of Darkness will cease, and then, and then 
only, will my spirit reinhabit its earthly 
envelope. 

“ Come, therefore, to my rooms on the 20th 
of this month, a little before midnight, and I 
shall be once more with you. 

“ Step within the circle drawn on the carpet 
in the outer room as Big Ben strikes 1 2. 

“ Be not afraid of anything you may see or 
hear, for no harm will come to you. 

“ Come alone, or with whom you will. But 
do not, on any account, speak of this matter 
to Evelyn, or, indeed, to any one, beforehand, 
and when you have read what I have written 
cast it into the fire. 

“ With respect to Ev'^elyn, she will never 
again be threatened, for the Master of Darkness 
has no power over one whom the Master of 
Light protects. The strangely wrought dagger. 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


121 


too — ‘ The doer of the Master’s will,’ as it is 
called — will take no more lives. It has become 
forfeit to my Master, who will deal with it 
accordingly. 

“Now, my dear Harvey, time presses, and 
I must bring this hurried communication to 
an end. 

“ I want you to promise me, not only to de- 
stroy what I have written, but never to ask me 
a single word upon the subject when we again 
meet. 

“ This much I feel sure you will do. 

“Do not, I beg you, alarm yourself on my 
account ; for it will, I trust, be well with me. 

“Till the 2oth, then, good-by. Yours, 

‘ Lionel Mansfield. 

“ P. S. — If death should, however, overtake 
me before I can have placed myself in a posi- 
tion of safety, you will know why and how it 
has been. It will then remain for you to ex- 
plain matters to Evelyn as your good judgment 
dictates. I inclose a statement of my affairs 
and the name and address of my lawyer in case 
anything goes wrong. I have, as you will see, 
appointed you sole executor. 

“ L. M.” 

Harvey read this extraordinary letter over 


m 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


and over again until every word was burnt into 
his memory. Then he took his friend’s closely 
written pages and cast them into the fire. 

Out of the smoke weird forms seemed to his 
distorted fancy to shape themselves and shrivel 
to dust in the devouring flames. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

At about 11.30 on the night of the 20th 
Harvey went to Mansfield’s room in the Temple. 

A lamp was burning in the sitting-room and 
the rays of the full moon flooded the’ bedroom 
where Mansfield was lying. 

All was still ; even the attendant, who should 
have been on the watch, was asleep. 

He awoke with a start as Harvey closed the 
door, and glared wildly about him. 

“ What ails you, Jackson ?” said the young 
doctor, shaking him by the shoulder. 

“ Nothing, sir; but you gave me a regular 
start. I have had a horrid dream, sir, all about 
spirits and devils, and I thought at first ‘ that 
you was one of ’em when you came in.” 

“ Then you have been to sleep ?” 

“Yes, sir, I must own to having done so,” 
replied the man sheepishly : “ but it is awful 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM.' 


123 


monotonous watching and waiting here, and I 
was thinking of asking you to get some one 
else to take my place. To tell you the truth, 
sir, this ain’t a fit place for a Christian to be in.” 

“ How, Jackson ?” 

“ Well, sir,” replied Jackson, after some 
hesitation, during which he looked cautiously 
around the room ; “ a most awful thing hap- 
pened here last night — something which makes 
my blood run cold to think of it. The Colonel 
had a visitor !” 

“ A visitor ?” 

“Yes, sir, if a devil with glaring eyes, big 
yellow teeth and large bony hands can be called 
such. How he came in I don’t know, but come 
in he did, and never before did I have such a 
turn. He stood by the Colonel’s bedside, and 
watched him like a cat would a mouse. He 
had a rope in his hand, and this rope he put 
round the Colonel’s neck ; then he opened the 
Colonel’s white dress and felt about his heart. 
His examination didn’t seem to satisfy him, for 
he made use of some words, which, although I 
didn’t understand, sounded very like curses. 
He put his ear on the Colonel’s heart and lis- 
tened ; then he made some passes over him and 
muttered something in a jargon I had never 
heard before. He appeared to be trying to 


134 


MARKED FOR A VICTIM. 


« 


wake the Colonel, and when he found it was no 
go his language was awful. And the expres- 
sion on his face, sir, was such as I have never 
seen on that of any man — not even in pictures. 
To tell the truth, sir, I couldn’t look at him 
any longer, and I crawled underneath the table ; 



HE STEPPED INTO THE CIRCLE AND WAITED. 

and when I did venture to take a peep he was 
gone.” 

“ Where did he go and how ?” asked Harvey. 
“That is what I can’t find out. He didn’t 
pass me, that is certain, and he couldn’t have 
gone through the window, for it was fastened ; 
and, sir,” added Jackson, with a hushed voice, 
“there is no chimney in the bedroom.” 


“marked foe a tictim.” 125 

“ You must have been dreaming,” said 
Harvey. 

“ Dreaming ! Not me, sir ! I was as wide 
awake as I am now. Y ou see this mark,” and 
he held up his hand ; “ that’s where I bit my- 
self to see if I was awake or asleep.” 

“ But if you were awake, why didn’t you lay 
hold of the man you saw ? According to your 
story, he was in the next room with the object 
of murdering the man you were set to watch, 
and yet you, big, burly fellow that you are, 
were afraid to go near him. I never knew you 
to be a coward before, Jackson.” 

“ No, sir, I haven’t got the character of being . 
a coward, and there isn’t a man living that I am 
afraid of ; but, sir, that object was not a living 
man ; he was a devil of some sort or other, and 
I couldn’t have gone near him for the world.” 

At this point Harvey looked at his watch 
and found it was within a few minutes of 1 2. 

“Jackson,” he said, “I am expecting Col. 
Mansfield to awake from his trance. If you 
feel nervous you had better go.” 

“ Nervous, sir ? I ain’t nervous with you for 
company, but when one’s all alone it’s a different 
matter, and another night like last night would 
turn my brain.” 

The first notes of Big Ben came upon the 


126 


MASKED POE A VICTIM. 


stillness of the night, and Harvey, drawing 
Jackson to his side, stepped into the circle. 

Big Ben ceased, and the two men waited in 
breathless suspense for a sign of Mansfield’s re- 
turn to consciousness. 

They had not long to wait. 

A strange and wonderful thing took place. 

The moon was hid by a passing cloud, and 
outside the window there came a sound like the 
flapping of wings. A rush of air filled the 
room, and as the two men watched the motion- 
less body of the Colonel, it appeared to be 
surrounded by phosphorescent vapor, out of 
which a luminous form slowly shaped itself. 

It was the astral body of Col. Mansfield. 

The shadow and its physical counterpart 
seemed to blend and mingle together. The 
flush of returning animation lit up the pallid 
cheeks of the Colonel ; his limbs quivered and 
his lips slightly moved. A convulsive shudder 
ran through his frame, and, with a long-drawn 
sigh, Mansfield arose from his bed and stood 
with the' moonlight, no longer hid by the cloud, 
flooding his face. 

Harvey rushed towards him, while the terror- 
stricken Jackson fell fainting to the floor. 


MASKED FOE A VICTIM. 


127 


CHAPTER XV. 

But little more remains to be said. Harvey 
and Evelyn are married ; they live in Harley 
street. Harvey is now an F. R. S. and a man 
of considerable scientific repute. Evelyn wears 
the heart-shaped locket night and day, although 
there is no prospect of her again being selected 
as one of the “affinities.” 

Mansfield declined to answer any questions 
having reference to the strange affair related in 
the preceding chapter, and he left for India by 
the next mail. 

When last heard of he was making his way 
through Thibet to the Sacred City of the Lamas. 
Further news of him is waited with interest, for 
the mission upon which he has gone is one of 
great importance. 

Before starting on his journey Mansfield ex- 
pressed his intention of keeping a record of his 
travels ; and it is hoped that this record, which 
will certainly be of great interest and value, 
will eventually find its way to this country. 

With respect to the dagger, “ the doer of the 
Master’s will,” it will be remembered that 
Mansfield, in his letter to Harvey, explained 
that its power for evil was at an end ; and the 


138 


MARKED FOE A VICTIM. 


reader will probably be interested to know 
what eventually became of it. Well, a most 
extraordinary thing happened, which to this 
day has never been satisfactorily explained. 

The dagger was kept by the police locked up 
in a fire-proof safe, to which no one but the 



HEAP OF DUST. 

Inspector, who had the key, could possibly 
have access. 

On the morning of the 21st the Inspector 
went to the safe for some purpose or other, and, 
to his astonishment, the dagger was not there, 
in its place was a small heap of dust of a pale 
bluish color. 


THE END. 


PERDITA. 


Leaning over the broken stile, just at the 
edge of the wood, a girl stood straining her 
eyes through the gathering gloom. A step 
sounded beside her, and she turned suddenly. 

“ Oh, it is only you,” she said in a disap- 
pointed voice, and the light which had 
leaped into her dark eyes died out again, 
leaving them sadder than before. 

“ It is only I,” laughed a young man with 
pleasant blue eyes and a frank, open face, as 
he paused a moment beside her. “That 
was not a very complimentary greeting of 
yours. Miss Bessie. But will you not take 
cold out here with those bare arms ? There 
is a dampness in the air that talks of rain.” 

“ I never take cold,” Bessie answered, with 
her eyes still on the woodland path that led 


4 


PERDITA. 


from the village. “ Are you going to the 
village, Mr. Ryder?” 

“ Yes. Have you any errand for me ?” 

Bessie shook her head. “No. Cyril — 
Mr. Hall was to attend to some errands for 
me. He went some time ago, and I am 
waiting for his return now. If you should 
see him, you may tell him I am waiting.” 

A shadow fell over young Ryder’s face, 
and he took a step nearer the girl, drew in 
his breath as if to speak, and then strode 
on without a word through the woodland 
path. 

“There is no excuse for him,” he mut- 
tered; “ he is acting the part of a scoundrel.” 

He had gone a quarter of a mile, perhaps, 
when he came face to face with the object 
of his uncomplimentary meditations — a 
handsome man of about thirty, dark, lithe, 
debonair — fascinating Cyril Hall, who had 
been the pet of fortune and of women all his 
life, until he was selfish to the heart’s core. 
Young Ryder paused. 

“ I say, Cyril,” he began abruptly, “ it is a 
downright shame the way you are going on 


PERDITA. 


5 


with that young girl down at the house. 
She is waiting for you at the stile, with her 
heart in her pretty brown eyes, and I had 
half a notion to tell her the exact situation 
of affairs ; but I did not.” 

Cyril took the cigar from between his 
lips, and carefully knocked the ashes off. 
Then he said slowly, and with one of his 
aggravating smiles ; 

“ You exhibited commendable good taste, 
my dear youth, in minding your own busi- 
ness for once in youi life. It is the true 
secret to success.” 

“ But, I say,” insisted Ryder, his blue eyes 
blazing now, “ it isn’t fair or manly to de- 
ceive the girl so. Y ou may blight her whole 
life.” 

“ Edward, are you in love with her ?” 
asked Cyril, laying his hand on his friend’s 
shoulder and looking up in his face with 
mock solemnity. “ If so, speak at once, or 
forever afterward hold your peace. I can 
account for your zeal in no other way.” 

Ryder shook the hand off impatiently. 
“You know better,” he said. “But I do 


6 


PERDITA. 


not like to see as nice a girl as Bessie San- 
ders deceived and made a fool of, and I do 
not like to see as fine a man as Cyril Hal]||^ 
forget his principle — that’s all. I am going 
back to town to-morrow, and you will not 
be troubled by my interference any longer, 
however.” 

“ Going back to town, Edward ? Well, 

I will accompany you then. I am rather 
weary of this place myself. So tra-la, dear 
boy, and when I join you later at the hotel 
try and be in better humor.” 

Then young Ryder passed on toward the 
village, and Cyril resumed his cigar and his 
lazy saunter toward the stile, where the 
white, handsome face of Bessie Sanders 
shone like a star through the gloaming. 

He leaned across the stile and slipped his 
arm about her slender waist, his black eyes 
smiling dangerously. “ Patient little girl,” 
he said, “ I thought you would grow tired 
of waiting, and go off in a pet ere this. But 
I find you here ready to greet me as of old. 
And do you know it is for the last time ? I 
am going away to-morrow.” 


PERDITA. 


7 


He felt the hand he held tremble and 
grow cold suddenly. 

“ Not to stay,” she said, almost in a whis- 
per ; “ not for good and all.” 

“ For good and all,” he answered, and be- 
gan to feel very much like the villain he was, 
and nervously anxious to end the interview. 
“For good and all, Bessie ; and I came to 
say good-by now, as we start early in the 
morning. Be a good girl, Bessie, and think 
of me sometimes.” 

He moved as if to go, but she clutched 
his arm with two firm slim hands. 

“You — you would not leave me like this, 
Cyril, after all — after all that has passed be- 
tween us two ? You will come back soon — 
oh, say that you will come back to me, 
Cyril, before you go.” 

Her voice was almost a wail. Her eyes 
shone wild through the dusk. 

“ Be quiet,” he said sternly, “ or some one 
will hear you. I cannot come back to you. 
You must forget me, Bessie. I had no 
right to ask you ever to think of me. It is 
better you should forget me at once ” 


8 


PERDITA. 


“ Why ?” she asked sharply, her face bent 
forward so that her eyes looked straight in 
his ; “ why ? Is it because some other woman 
has a better right to you than I have, Cyril ? 
Did you leave some one behind you who was 
dearer to you than I am ?” 

Her hands held his arm so closely that 
she hurt him, but not so keenly as her voice 
hurt. Oh, what a miserable cowardly wretch 
he felt himself to be ! He turned his face 
away. 

“Yes,” he said, speaking very quickly and 
nervously now. “Yes, I left another wom- 
an behind me, Bessie ; and that woman was 
— my wife. I have been married four years, 
and I have a boy three years old. Now 
you know, and you mus^ forget me.” 

He felt her hold relax upon his arm, and 
she stood up straight and thin and white in 
the starlight. She lifted one hand with an 
intensely dramatic gesture. 

“Go,” she said, “and may God’s curse 
fall on you, and on your boy. As for your 
wife — I pity her.” 

Then she turned and vanished in the dark- 


nes-^i 


PERD/TA. 


9 


Cyril shrank involuntarily under her men- 
acing gesture and vindictive curse. Then 
he slowly pursued his way back toward the 
village, but it was very late before he 
joined young Ryder in their rooms, and 
when he did, Ryder found him irritable and 
moody. 

“Well, I have been looking over accounts, 
old fellow,” Ryder said, as his friend came 
in, “ and I find it has been a very successful 
six weeks for me.” 

Edward Ryder was a civil engineer and 
surveyor, and had come out into this region 
on Government business. 

Cyril threw himself on a couch. 

“And I find it the most unprofitable six 
weeks of my life,” he said. “ I wish to 
heaven I had staid in the city, or followed 
my wife and boy to her mountain home. It 
was a foolish freak of mine, coming out West 
here with you.” 

“Just the different view a man takes who 
kills time, from one who uses time,” Ryder 
replied. “ It is too bad, Cyril, that you 
have so much money and leisure. You 


lO 


PERDITA. 


would be a happier man if you had more to 
do in this life — more to struggle for.” 

“Well, let’s be done with preaching and 
go to sleep,” growled Cyril. 

“You’ve done nothing but preach to me 
all day,” and, with this, he turned his back 
on his friend and began preparations for 
retiring. 

And afar in the green mountain home of 
her childhood, where she was making her 
yearly visit, a fair-haired woman was listen- 
ing to the prayer of a white-robed child who 
knelt with clasped hands and lisped: 

“ God bless papa Cyril, and make him a 
good man, and may he never forget mama 
and baby.” 

It was a sentence Helen Hill taught her 
baby boy to repeat nightly, as soon as he 
could talk — and the shadow in her eyes, 
when her handsome, debonair husband was 
out of her sight, told of the fear that had 
given rise to the prayer 

While somewhere at that very moment 
a girl of seventeen, with passionate, dark 
eyes, and a mass of disordered, dark hair, lay 


PBRDITA. 


V 

face downward on the green, cool earth 
muttering, between her clenched teeth: 
“Curse him, curse him, curse him.” 


A group of genteel loungers filled a fash- 
ionable club-room one afternoon in late 
January. Their ages ranged from eighteen 
to twenty-five. Some handsome, some blas6, 
all were dressed and having the appearance 
of wealth and culture. 

“ Who plays to-night at the theatre X' 

asked Harold Weston, suddenly. “ I have 
just come in town and have lost all track of 
the amusements.” 

The young man addressed twirled his cane, 
laughed, and answered, with a mischievous 
glance at the assembled crowd: 

“ Ask Claude ; he can tell you.” 

At this there was a general laugh, while 
the young man referred to flushed scarlet 
and lowered his eyes upon the paper he held 
in his hand. 

He was a remarkably handsome youth of 
possibly eighteen. Tall, splendidly propor- 
tioned, with large violet-blue eyes and rich 


13 


PERDITA. 


chestnut hair, and the features of a Greek 
statue, A father’s pride, and, until that 
mother died, a mother’s darling. An only 
son, of independent wealth, who had enjoyed 
every advantage of culture and travel, and 
was now just freed from college, where he 
had borne off the honors of his class. 

Blas^ Harold Weston looked at the youth 
with amused eyes, 

“ What is it, boys ?” he queried. “A case 
of bad mash — to be inelegant but expressive. 
And who is the goddess who has fatally 
wounded our Apollo ?” 

“ It is rather another case of Venus and 
Adonis,” laughed Charlie Foster, “only 
Adonis is not so shy as of old.” 

“ But who is she ?” queried Weston. 
“ Why all this mystery ? Come, Claude, 
out with it, old fellow.” 

Claude laid down his paper. 

• • 

“ I believe the question you asked, to be- 
gin with, was, Who plays at the theatre 

to-night? If you appeal to me to answer 
that question, I will very gladly. It is 
Perdita, the sensation of the day, and with- 


PERDITA. 13 

out doubt the finest actress now before the 
public.” 

The group of young men looked at each 
other and smiled. Claude’s enthusiasm over 
Perdita had been the talk of the club for 
some time. 

“ What does she play ?” queried Weston, 
anxious to know all about the subject under 
discussion. 

“ Society plays altogether, but she is 
studying some of Shakespeare’s characters, 
and will no doubt distinguish herself there- 
in,” Claude replied. 

“ I doubt it,” responded Charlie Foster. 
“ I do not think she is great enough for any- 
thing of that kind. She is doing her best 
work now — all she is capable of.” 

“ How old is she ?” continued Weston. 

“About twenty-four or five,” Claude an- 
swered quickly. 

Foster laughed. “Oh, nonsense !” he ejacu- 
lated. “ She is thirty-five if she is a day, 
Weston. I own she looks as young as 
twenty-five off the stage, and younger on 
the boards. But I have seen too many 


14 PERDITA. 

actresses to be deceived. She is certainly 
in her early thirties.” 

“Rather a mature Venus for our Adonis, 
eh !” teased Weston, and Foster answered: 

“Yes; but you know that is usually the 
form young love takes. My first passion 
was inspired by a widow, fair, fat and forty, 
while I was only sixteen.” 

Claude rose to his feet, white, angry, his 
blue eyes blazing. 

“ I say, boys, this has gone far enough,” 
he cried. “ I don’t mind a little chaffing, 
but I think you are getting downright in- 
sulting. I believe I am entitled to fair treat- 
ment in this club, and I leave it to any or 
all of you to say if I ever used any member 
as I am being used this afternoon.” 

He was hurt as well as angry — they all 
saw that. And they all loved Claude as a 
brother. He was the best and kindest- 
hearted youth in the club, and the most 
generous. 

“ I beg your pardon, Claude,” Foster said, 
holding out his hand. “ We were only in 
jest, but we carried it too far. Forgive us.” 


PERDITA. 


15 


Claude took the proffered hand. “ Let it 
drop,” he said. “ And now, boys, I invite 
you all to go en masse with me to the play 
to-night. It is to be the Lady of Lyons — 
Perdita’s best. Will you go ?” 

“ Yes ; and I invite you all to a supper at 
my chambers after the play,” added Weston. 

“ Done !” cried a chorus of voices. But 
Claude hesitated. 

“ I am engaged for supper after the play,” 
he said ; “ but I thank you all the same.” 

Nothing more was said, but they all un- 
derstood what Claude’s engagement meant. 

That night at the supper in Weston’s 
room it was discussed. 

“ Claude went with Perdita, I suppose,” 
Weston said inquiringly. 

“ Oh, yes ; he is with her every night 
after the play, and usually an hour or two 
every afternoon. It seems too bad. She is 
evidently a designing woman, and will not 
be content until she has taken his last dol- 
lar.” 

“ What does his father say ?” 

"He is in total ignorance of the state of 


i6 


PERDITA. 


affairs so far, I think. You know Claude 
has been a model boy — no vices af all, and 
knows nothing about women, except his 
mother.” 

“Just the sort of youth to be led away 
by a modern Delilab,” Weston responded. 
“ Can’t any of you give him a warning ?” 

“No; he won’t take a word from us. 
You saw how he flashed this afternoon. If 
he hears us discussing her too freely, he gets 
up and walks away. It is a case of complete 
infatuation, and must wear itself out.” 

“ There is no infatuation more hopeless, 
while it lasts, than that of first passionate 
youth for a mature woman,” Foster said. 
“ Perdita knows this, no doubt, and makes 
use of it to help fill her coffers. What won- 
derful eyes she has. They were like coals of 
fire as they fell on Claude. I saw her look 
straight at him several times.” 

“ Yes ; she plays at him half her time — we 
have all seen it.” 

“ Does anybody know anything about 
her? Who is she? Married or single ?” 

“No,” Foster said. “ She is a mystery. 


PERDITA. 


*7 

She came from California well advertised, 
and her beauty and magnetic power and 
talents did the rest. She has drawn well 
here. The men go wild about her, but 
Claude is the worst hit of all. He believes 
her a model of virtue and goodness, and all 
that.” 

“ Poor fellow ! Ah, well! he must have 
his day like the rest of us, and be wiser 
and sadder afterward. But I hope he’ll 
come out of it all right, for his father’s 
sake. He pins all his hopes in heaven on 
that boy.” 

“ About the only chance he will have, I 
fancy, for I am told he was a reckless rake 
in his youth, and never reformed till a little 
while before his wife died.” 

“ Then he can’t be hard on Claude if he 
does squander his fortune on Perdita. He 
need only recall his own early youth, and re- 
member how successfully he outlived them.” 

And while this conversation was going on, 
the subject of it sat in Perdita’s boudoir en- 
joying the delights of a tHe-h-tite supper 
with the object of his infatuation. For 


i8 


PERDITA. 


Claude was as wholly fascinated as his com- 
panions believed. 

He only lived in the presence of this 
siren — away from her the time was only a 
dreary longing for the hour to come when 
he could go to her. 

As he gazed now into the rich tropical 
beauty of her face, his whole soul lay in the 
azure of his beautiful eyes, like a flower 
in a brook. He was so guileless, so un- 
sophisticated for a youth reared as he had 
been. 

“ And so you refused the supper with 
your friends to come to me,” Perdita said 
caressingly, letting her splendid eyes rest 
upon his face. “ That was very kind of 
you.” 

“ Kind !” he repeated. “ Is it kind of dis- 
embodied spirits to go into the gate of Para- 
dise when it is left open for them ?” 

“You flatterer,” she murmured, and she 
laid one soft hand on his. 

Her touch thrilled through every nerve of 
his body. His eyes glowed. He leaned 
forward and his breath fanned her cheek. 


PERDITA. 


19 


“ Do you know,” he said, almost in a whis^ 
per, “ I am like a drunken man in your 
presence ; I am in a strange sort of delirium ; 
and when I am away from you I wonder 
constantly why it is that you seem to care for 
me. I cannot understand it.” 

“ Can you not ?” she said, and a curious 
smile crossed her face — a smile that for a 
second swept all the beauty out of it, and 
left it cold and hard and cruel. But it was 
gone before Claude saw it. 

“ Can you not ? Well, some day I will tell 
you why — ^jut not now.” 

“ Come and sit on yonder divan with me, 
and tell me all you have done since I last 
saw you, and tell me what your friends 
thought of the play.” 

“What is this I hear, Claude, of your run- 
ning after an actress. Is it true ?” 

It was Claude’s father, the spare-faced, 
austere Wall-street merchant who asked the 
question. 

The guilty tide that crimsoned Claude’s 
face made answer before he spoke. 


30 


PERDITA. 


“ It is true, sir, that I sometimes goto see 
the actress Perdita,” he answered. 

“Sometimes? Well, how often is that?” 

“Everyday — sometimes oftener.” 

Claude could no more have lied than he 
could have committed a theft. And, beside, 
his love made him fearless. 

The Wall-street merchant bit his lip to 
repress an oath. 

“ And how much money have you squan- 
dered upon her already ?” he asked. 

A hot color swept over Claude’s face. 

“ Not one dollar,” he said. “ J^erdita has 
refused to allow me to bring her even costly 
bouquets. She is not a mercenary woman.” 

This time an amused smile curved the 
banker’s thiff lips. 

“ You are a precious young fool, Claude,” 
he said, “ to suppose that this woman does 
not care for money. If she refuses your 
gifts, it is only to get you more thoroughly 
in her toils. I wouldn’t wonder if she meant 
to marry you, and get possession of all you 
have, and will have. No doubt she is posted 
regarding your financial prospect, and, despite 


PERDITA. 


21 


your youth, realizes that she can never hope 
to do as well again, I would advise you to 
keep out of her way, Claude. I suppose you 
must have your fancies ; but I don’t like to 
hear you made a subject of ridicule, as I 
have heard you to-day. Quit this woman at 
once, Claude, or you will regret it.” 

And the merchant turned on his heel, 
believing that he had struck a death-blow to 
Claude’s passion. 

“ Once knowing he is ridiculed, he will 
quit her,” he reasoned. 

He did not dream of the tragedy so near 
at hand — a tragedy that would bleach his 
hair in a few short days to snowy white, and 
age him more than years. 

His father’s words had set Claude’s heart 
to beating wildly. “ Marry him ?” Could it 
be possible that this glorious woman would 
give herself to him to be his own forever. 

An hour later he was by her side, his eyes 
aglow, his breath coming quick and hard, his 
flesh burning — a very picture of splendid 
youth and passionate love. 

Perdita arrayed in a long, loose robe of 


22 


PERDITA. 


clinging white, out of which gleamed her 
snowy arms, her blonde hair negligently ar- 
ranged, her dark eyes languid, gave him 
cordial greeting. 

She was half reclining on a rich couch, and 
she motioned him to take an ottoman at her 
side. 

“ I am very glad to see you,” she said, toy- 
ing with his hair. “ I have been thinking of 
you all day.” 

“ And I dreamed of you all night,” Claude 
said, as he leaned over her. “Oh, Perdita, 
my queen, I cannot live without you ! Will 
you be my wife ? I have money, position, 
name, to offer you — do not let a few foolish 
y^ars stand between us and happiness. Be 
my wife, Perdita.” 

His voice trembled, his eyes glowed, his 
form shook. Then Perdita rose up, and 
looked him in the face with mocking eyes. 
Her cruel laugh struck on his ears like jar- 
ring discords. 

“Your wife,” she repeated. “Why, 
Claude, I am already married. I am the 
wife of my business manager.” Her cruel 


PERDITA. 


23 


eyes saw the color fade from his face, and 
a deathly pallor succeed it ; but there was 
no pity in them. 

“Then, for God’s sake,” he cried, “what 
have you been playing with me for — why 
have you led me on to love you so.” 

“ I will tell you,” she answered, slowly. 
“ But first let me show you something.” 

She slipped her hand into her bosom and 
drew therefrom a small picture. “ Look at 
it well,” she said, “ and then listen to my 
story.” 

Half an hour later Claude Hill went out 
upon the street with a look in his eyes that 
made all who met him start in affright. It 
was the look of a man who is going 
mad. That night the city rang with the 
startling news that young Claude Hill, the 
Wall Street merchant’s son, had shot him- 
self. 

Perdita lay on a crimson couch in elegant 
deshabille, when a card was sent up. She 
took it, read the name thereon, and a curious 
look crossed her handsome face. A look 


24 


PERDITA. 


that made the beauty vanish, and left it al- 
most repulsive. 

“Admit him,” she said to the servant, and 
again her eyes fell on the card. The name 
written on it in a bold free hand was Cyril 
Hill. “At last!” Perdita said, under her 
breath, and then the door opened, and the 
Wall Street merchant — or a pale, haggard 
wreck of him — entered and stood before 
her. He lifted one corded hand and shaded 
his eyes, as if he could not bear all at once 
the sight of the woman he had come to see. 

“ Mr. Hill— Cyril Hill, I believe,” Perdita 
said, as she arose ; and at her voice he 
looked up. 

“ Yes,” he said; “ I am Claude Hill’s 
father — father of the boy you have killed. 
O woman! woman! for God’s sake tell me 
what drove my boy to his doom. Tell me 
what you did, what you said, in that last 
fatal interview.” 

Perdita’s answer was a strange one. 

“ Look at me,” she said, “ and perhaps 
you will know.” 


PERDITA. 


25 


He looked at the splendid form, the hand- 
some features, the mass of fluffy blonde 
hair, the dark eyes. “ Do you know me ?” 
she asked. 

He shook his head. “ I only know you 
as the murderess of my boy — my only son,” 
he said, and a great sob shook his whole 
form. 

She smiled. “ It is not strange,” she 
said; “and yet I should have known you 
anywhere, Cyril Hill. Ah! the day has been 
long, long in coming — but I knew it would 
come.” 

He looked at her wonderingly. “ What 
are you talking of, woman,” he cried. “ If 
you have anything to say to me, speak at 
once. I came to demand speech from you.” 

“ I have much to say to you,” Perdita re- 
plied. “ But first let me correct an error of 
yours. You spoke just now of the death of 
your only son. You mistake — he is living.” 

She thrust before his face the picture she 
had shown to Claude: the picture of a child 
with large weird eyes, and a face of uncanny 


26 


PERDITA. 


beauty. And yet there was no mistaking 
the resemblance between the picture and the 
face that gazed upon it. 

Cyril Hill cast a questioning, frightened 
look at the woman before him. “ Good 
God! who are you,” he cried, “and what do 
you mean ?” 

“ I am,” she said, smiling her cruel smile 
again, “ I am, to the world, Perdita, the 
actress; but you have known me under a 
different name, Cyril Hill ; and our meeting 
is quite as dramatic as our parting was there 
by the broken stile on that summer night fif- 
teen years ago. Only now you are the suf- 
erer.” 

“ Bessie!” he cried, in a startled whisper; 
“impossible. She had dark hair — and she 
would be older.” 

She laughed. “ I bleached my hair for 
stage purposes,” she said, “ and I am just 
thirty-two, Cyril Hill, though I know I do 
not look it. It is a wonder I do not look 
twice that — after all I have suffered. Did 
you never wonder what became of me ? Did 
you never think it possible my hour would 


PERDITA. 


27 


come ? Oh, God! I was so young, so in- 
nocent when you found me — so old, so 
wicked when you left me there in the night 
alone with my despair. I do not know how 
I lived ; but I did live to have my disgrace 
drive my poor old mother into her grave, 
and then I fled— fled like a wild hunted 
thing through many days and nights until I 
fell by the roadside. When I came to con- 
sciousness I was in a city hospital, cared for 
by kind hands. I remained there until I 
was well and strong, and then I went out to 
seek for work. I wandered the streets day 
after day, and when at last I stood despair- 
ing upon the bridge spanning the river that 
rushed upon its restless way, longing for 
death, yet fearing to make the final plunge, 
a man saw me. He was a member of a 
theatrical troupe then forming in the city. 
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘your face and 
form have a better mission than to lie bloated 
and discolored at the bottom of yonder 
river.’ I went — not knowing, not caring 
whither. Three years later I began the ca- 
reer which has brought me success, money. 


28 


PERDITA. 


power — everything but happiness. How do 
you like the story, Cyril Hill ?” 

She paused, and he lifted his bowed head — 
a head grown strangely white during the last 
twenty-four hours. While she had talked, 
and while he had listened, wild emotions of 
pity, remorse, and a possible reparation were 
in his heart. He touched the picture that 
she still held. 

“ And he — is he living ? I think you said 
he was ?” he almost whispered, leaning near 
her with a look of agonized interest in his 
eyes. After all, he might make some repa- 
ration and not be left wholly alone in his 
old age. 

“ He is living,” Perdita answered. 

“ Where ?” 

“ He is insane, and has been from his 

birth. He is in the asylum at W ,” was 

her answer. “ He does not know me from 
his keeper. You have heard all. Now, go.” 

And Cyril Hill went from the presence 
of the woman he had wronged so long ago, 
broken, bowed, and desolate. His sin had 
found him out. 


DAVE^S WIFE. 


39 


DAVE’S WIFE. 

“ So Dave has brought his wife home ?” 

Deacon Somers cut a larger chip from the 
stick he had been whittling down to a very 
fine point as he answered Deacon Bradlaw’s 
query by the one monosyllable, “ Ye-a-s.” 

“Got home last night, I hear.” 

“Ye-a-s;” and the stick was coming 
down to a very fine point now, so assidu 
ously was the deacon devoting all his ener- 
gies to it. 

Deacon Bradlaw waited a moment, with an 
expectant air ; then he clasped one knee with 
both hands, and leaned forward toward his 
neighbor. 

“ Well, what do you think of your boy’s 
choice ?” he asked. “ What sort of a woman 
does she seem to be ? Think she’ll be a help 
in the church ?” 

Deacon Somers was silent a moment. 
Whirling the whittled stick around and 


30 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


around, he squinted at it, with one eye 
closed, to see if it was perfectly symmetrical. 
(Deacon Somers had a very mathematical 
eye, and he liked to have everything “ plumb,” 
as he expressed it. He had been known to 
rise from his knees at a neighbor’s house in 
prayer-meeting time and go across the room 
and straighten a picture which oflFended his 
eye by hanging “askew.”) Having con- 
vinced himself that the stick was round, the 
deacon tilted back against the side of the 
country store where he and his companion 
were sitting, and began picking his teeth with 
the aforesaid stick, as he answered Deacon 
Bradlaw’s question by another, and a seem- 
ingly irrelevant one. 

“ Do you remember Dave’s boss trade ?” 

“ No,” answered the deacon, surprised at 
this sudden turn in the conversation, “ I can’t 
say’t I do.” 

“Wa’al, just after he come home from 
college, two years ago, he got dreadfully sot 
against the bay mare I drove. I’d had her 
for years, and she was a nice steady-going 
animal. We had a four-year-old colt too. 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


31 


that 1 drove with her. Wa’al, Dave he 
thought it was a shame and a disgrace to 
drive such a ill-matched span. The young 
boss was right up and off, and the bay mare 
she lagged behind about half a length. The 
young boss was a short stepper, and the bay 
mare went with a long, easy lope. They 
wasn’t a nice-matched span, I do confess. 

“ Wa’al, Dave he kept a-talkin’ trade to me 
till I give in. He said he knew of a mighty 
nice match for the young boss, and if I would 
leave it to him he’d make a good trade. So 
I left it to him, and one day he come drivin’ 
home in grand style. The old mare was 
traded off, and a dappled-gray four-year-old 
was in her place. A pretty creature to look 
at, but I knew, the minute I sot eyes onto 
her, that she’d never pull a plough through 
the stubble-ground, or haul a reaper up that 
side-hill o’ mine. 

“ ‘ Isn’t she a beauty, father?’ said Dave. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ says I; ‘ but handsome is as hand- 
some does applies to bosses as well as to 
folks, I reckon. What can this ’ere mare 
do, Davel’ 


32 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


“ Dave’s face was all aglow. ‘ Do ?’ says 
he. ‘ Why, she can trot a mile in two minutes 
and three-quarters, father, and I only give 
seventy-five dollars to boot ’twixt her and 
the old mare.’ 

“Wa’al, you see, I was just struck dumb 
at that there boy’s folly, but I knew ’twa’n’t 
no use to say a word then. I just waited, 
and it come out as I expected. The dappled- 
gray mare took us to church or to town in 
fine style — passed everything on the road 
slick as a pin. But she balked on the reaper, 
and give out entirely on the plough. And 
I hed to buy another mare for the boss, and 
let the dappled mare stand in the stable, ex- 
cept when we put her in the carriage.” 

Deacon Somers paused, and his glance 
rested on Deacon Bradlaw’s questioning, 
puzzled face, 

“ Well ?” interrogated Deacon Bradlaw. 

“ Wa’al,” continued Deacon Somers, 
“ Dave’s marriage is off the same piece as his 
boss trade. Pretty creature, and can outstrip 
all the girls round here in playin’ and singin’ 
and paintin’ and dressin’, but come to washin’ 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


33 


and bakin’ and steady work — why, we’ll hev 
to get somebody else to do that, and let her 
sit in the parlor. Mother ’n’ I both see that 
at a glance and the deacon sighed. 

“ I see, I see,” mused Deacon Bradlaw, 
sympathetically. “ Too bad! too bad! Dave 
knew her at college, I believe ?” 

“Yes; they graduated in the same class 
She carried off all the honors, and the papers 
give her a long puff ’bout her ellycution. 
Dave’s head was completely turned, and he 
kept runnin’ back and forth to see her, till I 
thought the best thing for him to do was to 
marry her and be done with it. But Sarah 
Jane Graves would have suited mother ’n’ 
me better. You know Dave and she was 
pretty thick before he went off to college.” 

“ She’s a powerful homely girl, though,” 
Deacon Bradlaw said ; “ and the awkwardest 
critter I ever see stand in church choir and 
sing. Seems to be all elbows somehow.” 

“Ye-a-s — ye-a-s ; a good deal like the bay 
mare Dave was so sot against — awkward, 
but steady-goin’ and useful — more for use 
than show. Wa’al, wa’al I must be going 


34 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


home ; all the chores to do, and Dave’s billin’ 
ind cooin’. Good afternoon. Come over 
md see us.” 

When Dave Somers and his bride walked 
up the church aisle, the next Sunday morn- 
ing, over Parson Elliott’s congregation there 
passed that indefinable flutter which can only 
be compared to a breeze suddenly stirring 
the leaves of a poplar grove. Every eye was 
turned upon the handsome, strong-limbed 
young man, and the fair, delicate girl at his 
side, who bore the curious glances of all 
these strangers with quiet, well-bred com- 
posure. 

After service people lingered in the aisle 
for an introduction, in the manner of country 
village churches, where Sunday is the day 
for quiet sociability and the interchange of 
civilities. And after the respective friends 
of the family had scattered to their several 
homes, Dave’s wife was the one universal 
topic of discussion over the Sunday dinner. 

“ A mighty pretty girl,” “ A face like a 
rose,” “ Too cute for anything,” “ Stylish as 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


35 


a fashion plate,” “A regular little daisy,” 
were a few of the comments passed by the 
young men of the congregation. To these 
remarks the ladies supplemented their critical 
observations after the manner of women : 
“ Her nose isn’t pretty “ Her mouth is too 
large “Her face was powdered — I saw it 
“ Her hat was horrid “ I don’t like to see 
so much agony in a small place.” But Sarah 
Jane Graves said : “ She is lovely. I would 
give the world to be be as pretty as she is. 
No wonder Dave loved her.” And she 
choked down a lump in her throat as she 
said it. 

All the neighboring people called on Dave’s 
wife during the next month, and, with one 
or two exceptions, introduced the conversa- 
tion by the question, “Well, how do you 
like Somerville?” To the monotony of this 
query Dave’s wife varied her replies as much as 
was possible without contradicting herself. “I 
am quite delighted with the fertility of my 
mind,” she laughingly remarked to Dave at 
the expiration of the first month. “To at 
least fifteen people who have asked me that 


36 DAVE’S WIFE. 

one unvaried question I have invented at 
least ten different phrases in which to express 
my satisfaction with Somerville. I have 
said; ‘Very much, thank you;’ ‘Oh, I am 
highly pleased ‘ Far better than I antici- 
pated even;’ ‘I find it very pleasant;’ ‘It 
has made a very agreeable impression upon 
me ;’ and oh, ever so many more changes I 
have rung on that one idea, Dave !” and the 
young wife laughed merrily. But under the 
laugh Dave seemed to hear a minor strain. 
His face grew grave. 

“ I fear I did wrong to bring you here 
among these people,” he said. “They are 
so unlike you — so commonplace. I fear you 
are homesick already, Madge.” 

“ No, no ; indeed you are wrong, Dave ; 
indeed I am happy here, and like your 
friends,” Madge protested, with tender earn- 
estness. 

But as the months went by it was plain to 
all eyes that Dave’s wife was not happy, that 
she did not assimilate with her surroundings. 
She made no intimate friendships ; she sat 
silent at the sewing society, and would not 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


37 


take an interest m the neighborhood gossip, 
which formed the main topic of conversation 
at these meetings. She would not take a class 
at Sunday-school, claiming that she was not 
fitted to explain the Gospel to any unfolding, 
inquiring mind, as she was not at all sure 
that she understood it herself. 

Dark insinuations were afloat that Dave’s 
wife was an “unbeliever,” or at least a Uni- 
tarian, and her fashionable style of dress 
marked her as “worldly-minded” at all 
events. Deacon Bradiaw and Deacon Som- 
ers held many an interview on the shady 
side of the village store, and “ Dave’s wife” 
always came up for discussion, sooner or 
later, during those interviews. 

“ She’s settin’ a bad example to all of 
Somerville.” Deacon Bradiaw declared. 
“ My gal Arminda’s gettin’ just as fussy and 
proud as a young peacock about her clothes ; 
nothin’ suits her now unless it looks stylish 
and cityfied. And I see there’s a deal more 
extravagance in dress among all the women- 
folks since Dave’s wife came with her high 
heels and her bustles and her trimmin’s. 


38 J)A VE'S WIFE. 

You ought to labor with her, Brother Som- 
ers.” 

Brother Somers sighed. “ I do labor with 
her,” he said, “ but the poor thing don’t 
know what to do. Her guardian — she was 
an orphan, you know — ^give her the little 
money she had left after her schoolin’, tt) 
buy her weddin’ fixin’s. She’d no idee what 
plain folks she was a-comin’ among. So she 
got her outfit accordin’ to the way she’d 
been brought up. Lord ! she’s got things 
enough to last her ten years, and all trimmed 
to kill, and all fittin’ her like a duck’s foot 
in the mud ; and what can she do but wear 
’em, now she’s got ’em, she says ; and I can’t 
tell her to throw ’em away and buy new. 
’Twouldn’t be economy. She’s been with 
us nigh onto a year now, and she’s never 
asked Dave for a cent’s worth of anything,” 

“ But she’s no worker ; anybody can see 
that. And you’ve hed to keep a girl half 
the time since she’s been with you,” Deacon 
Bradlaw added, somewhat nettled that his 
neighbor made any excuses for Dave’s wife, 
whose fair face and fine clothes and quiet re* 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


39 


serve had inspired him with an angry resent- 
ment from the first. 

“ Ye-a-s, ye-a-s, that’s true,” Deacon Som- 
ers confessed. “ She’s no worker. Lord I 
the way she tried to make cheese ; and the 
cookin’ she did ! Mother hed to throw the 
cheese curd into the pig’s swill, and the 
bread and cake she made followed it. More 
waste from that experiment of her’s than 
we’ve hed in years ; and she was flour from 
head to foot, and all of a perspiration, and 
sick in bed from cryin’ over her failures into 
the bargain. The poor thing did try her 
very best. But it was like the dappled mare 
tryin’ to haul the plough — she couldn’t do it, 
wa’n’t built for it.” 

When Deacon Somers reached home his 
brow was clouded. His good wife saw it, 
and questioned him as to the cause. He 
shook his head. 

“ I’m troubled about church matters, 
mother,” he said. “ The debt fur that new 
steeple and altar, and all the rest of the ex- 
pense we’ve been to the last two years, wears 
on me night an’ day. And Deacon Brad 


40 


DAVE'S IVIFE. 


law he’s gettin’ mad at some of the trustees, 
and says he’ll never put another dollar into 
the church till they come forward and head 
a paper with fifty dollars apiece subscription. 
I know ’em all too well to think they’ll ever 
do that, and Deacon Bradlaw he’s a reg’lar 
mule. So the first we know our church ’ll 
be in a stew that will send half its members 
over to the rival church that’s started up at 
Jonesville, with one o’ them sensation 
preachers that draws a crowd like a circus,” 
and Deacon Somers sighed. 

“ Isn’t there something that can be done 
to raise the money ?” asked Mother Somers, 
anxiously. “ Can’t we get up entertain- 
ments ?” 

“ That’s old, and ’taint strawberry season,” 
sighed the deacon. “We couldn’t charge 
more’n fifteen or twenty cents at the door, 
and that wouldn’t bring in much for one 
entertainment, and nobody would turn out 
to a second. There don’t seem to be no 
ingenuity among the young folks here ’bout 
gettin’ up anything entertainin’. Our straw- 
berry festival was just a dead failure — barely 
paid expenses.” 


DAVE’S WIFj. 


41 


Dave’s wife, sitting with her pale face, 
which had grown very thin and wan of late, 
bent over a bit of sewing, suddenly looked 
up. Her listlesss expression gave place to 
one of animated interest. “ Father Somers,” 
she began, timidly, “do you suppose — do 
you think — I could get up a reading ?” 

“ A what ?” and Deacon Somers turned a 
surprised and puzzled face upon his daugh- 
ter-in-law. It was so new for her to betray 
any interest in anything. 

“A reading. You know I took the prize 
for elocution when I graduated, I know 
ever so many things I could recite, and it 
might draw a crowd just from its being 
something new. We could charge twenty- 
five cents admission, and it would give the 
impression of something good, at least. 
After they had heard me once they could 
decide for themselves if I am worth hearing 
again.” 

Deacon Somers looked upon the glowing 
face and animated mien of Dave’s wife with 
increasing wonder. Was this the listless 
girl he had seen a few moments before ? 


42 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


“ Ton my soul,” he ejaculated, “ I don’t 
know but it might draw a crowd, just from 
curiosity. Everybody would go to see 
Dave’s wife. Not th„t I hev much of a 
opinion of readin’s; never heard any but 
once, and then I went to sleep. But it 
might draw, seein’ it’s you. You can try 
it if you want to.” 

Dave’s wife did try it. It was announced 
before service Sunday morning that Mrs. 
David Somers would give a reading in the 
church edifice on Thursday evening : ad- 
mission, twenty-five cents. Proceeds to be 
applied toward the church debt. 

Again there was a breezy stir in the con- 
gregation, and scores of eyes were turned 
upon Davt’s wife, who sat in her silent 
white composure, with her dark eyes lifted 
to the face of the clergyman. 

But Sarah Jane Graves could not help 
noticing as she had not before the marked 
change in the young wife’s face since the 
day she entered that church a bride. 

“ How she is fading ! I wonder if she is 
unhappy ?” she thought. 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


43 


Thursday night came fair and clear. As 
Deacon Somers had predicted, the announce- 
ment that Dave’s wife was to give a reading 
had drawn a house ; the church was literally 
packed. Dave’s wife rose before her audi- 
ence with no words of apology or introduc- 
tion, and began the recitation of the old, 
hackneyed, yet ever beautiful 

** Curfew shall not ring to-night.” 

It was new to most of the audience, and 
certainly the manner of its delivery was new 
to them. They forgot themselves, they for- 
got their surroundings, they forgot that it 
was Dave’s wife who stood before them. 
They were alone in the belfry tower cling- 
ing with bleeding hands to the brazen 
tongue of the bell as it swung to and fro 
above the deaf old janitor’s head. When 
the recitation was finished two or three of 
the audience found themselves on their feet. 
How they came there they never knew, and 
they sat down with a shamefaced expression. 

Sarah Jane Graves was in tears, and one 
or two others wiped their eyes furtively, and 


44 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


then the old church walls rang with cheers, 
So soon as they subsided Dave’s wife arose, 
and, with a sudden change of expression 
and voice began to give a recital of “ An 
Evening at the Quarters.” It was in negro 
dialect, and introduced one or two snatches 
of song and a violin air. To the astonish- 
ment of her audience Dave’s wife picked up 
a violin at the appropriate time, and played 
the air through in perfect time and tune ; 
and then the house resounded to another 
round of cheers, and the entire audience was 
convulsed with laughter. Everything which 
followed, grave or gay, pathetic or absurd, 
was met with nods of approval, or the clapp- 
ing of hands and the drumming of feet. 
Somerville had never known such an enter-- 
tainment before. The receipts for the even- 
ing proved to be over forty dollars. 

During the next three months Dave’s wife 
gave two more readings, the proceeds of 
which paid half the church debt, and this so 
encouraged the members that old grudges 
and quarrels were forgotten, and Deacon 
Bradlaw and the elders made up the remain. 


DA V£’S WIFE. 45 

ing half, and Somerville church was free 
from debt. 

Yet Deacon Bradlaw was heard to say 
that while he was glad and grateful for all 
that Dave’s wife had done, he did not in his 
heart approve of turning the house of God 
into a “the^rtre.” “She performed exactly 
like them women whose pictures are in the 
store winders in town,” he said, “ a-makin’ 
everybody laugh or cry with their monkey- 
shines. I don’t think it a proper way to go 
on in the house of God. Never would hev 
given my consent to it ef I’d known what 
sort of entertainment it was to be.” 

“ Dave’s wife ever been a actress ?” he 
asked Deacon Somers when they next 
met. 

“ Actress ? N o. What put that into your 
head ?” answered Deacon Somers, with some 
spirit. 

“Oh, nothin’, nothin’; only her readin’s 
seemed a powerful sight like a theatre I 
went to once. Didn’t know she’d been on 
the stage ; it’s gettin’ fashi’nable nowadays. 
Anyway, she’s missed her callin’. Wait a 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


46 

minute, neighbor ; don’t hurry off so. I 
want to talk church matters.” 

“ Can’t,” responded Deacon Somers, whip- 
ping up his horse. “ Dave’s wife is sick in 
bed, and I came to the store to git a few 
things for her — bitters, and some nourishin’ 
things to eat. She’s sort o’ run down with 
the exertion she made in them readin’s. She 
used to be just drippin’ with perspiration 
when she got home.” 

Dave’s wife was ailing for months, unable 
to do more than sit in her room and paint an 
hour or two each day. The house was filled 
with her paintings. They ornamented 
brackets, and stood in corners, and peeped 
from the folds of fans, and smiled from Dave’s 
china coffee-cup. 

One day Dave proposed to his wife that 
she should go to her old home — the home of 
her guardian — and make a visit. 

“ We’ve been married fifteen months now,” 
he said, “ and you’ve never been away. I 
think a change will do you good. You seem 
to be running down every day.” 

So she went. After an absence of ten 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


47 


days she wrote to Dave to send her paintings 
to her by express. She had need of them ; 
would explain when she returned. Dave 
packed them carefully, and sent them with a 
sigh. 

Poor Dave ! He had come to realize that 
his marriage was a great mistake. To be 
sure, he loved Madge yet, but the romance 
of his youthful attachment had all passed 
away in the dull commonplace routine of his 
domestic life, where Madge had proved such 
an inefficient helpmeet. 

He had been blindly in love with his 
divinity ; elated with the fact that he had won 
her away from two or three other suitors. 
Madge was a brilliant scholar and a belle, and 
with the blind faith of young love, Dave had 
believed that she would excel in domestic 
duties as in intellectual pursuits. Her igno- 
minious failures, her utter uselessness, and his 
mother’s constant and indisputable references 
to her inefficiency about the farm-work, had 
presented her to his eyes in a new light. 
The brilliant girl who was the pride of the 
college, and the helpless, thriftless wife whose 


48 DATE’S WIFE. 

husband was regarded with pity by a sym* 
pathetic neighborhood, were two distinct in- 
dividuals, as were also the young elocution- 
ist carrying off the honors of her class, and 
the tired, tearful woman weeping over her 
soggy bread and melted butter. 

The success in her readings had revived 
his old pride in her for a time. But her con- 
sequent illness and listlessness had discour 
aged him. 

Mrs. Somers saw the express package, and 
inquired what it was. Dave told her, re- 
marking at the same time that he did not 
know what she intended to make of them. 

“ Maybe she’s going to give ’em away to 
those who will appreciate ’em,” suggested 
his mother. “I’m sure we’ve no room for 
such rubbish. But her time’s no more’n a 
settin’ hen’s, and she might as well spend it 
in that way as any other. She can’t do 
nothin’ that amounts to anything.” 

“ I think her readings amounted to a good 
deal,” Dave responded, glad that he could 
once speak authoritatively of his wife’s use- 
fulness. 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


49 


“Oh, yes; for that emergency. But its 
steady work that tells. Lor’ pity you and 
father ef I couldn’t do nothin’ but give read- 
ings ! Wonder where your meals would 
come from. Your marriage and your horse 
trade were ’bout olf one piece, Dave. Your 
wife’s pretty in the parlor or on the floor 
readin’, and your mare looks nice and drives 
nice in the buggy. But they can’t work,” 

Dave’s wife came home at the expiration 
of a month, looking fresher and feeling 
stronger, she said. And she did not bring 
her paintings. 

Deacon Somers came into Dave’s room 
the night after her return to talk about a 
certain piece of land that was for sale. It 
“ cornered on” to the deacon’s farm, and a 
stream of water ran across it. 

“ It will be worth a mint of money to 
me,” he said, “ for I can turn that field into 
a pasture, and all my stoek will water itself. 
But the man who’s sellin’ wants a hundred 
and fifty dollars down. He’s goin’ West, 
and must have that amount this week. I 
don’t see the way clear to pay it, for expen- 


50 


DAP .rs WIFE. 


ses have oeen a good deal of late, takin’ doc- 
tors’ bills and hired help and all into consid- 
eration, and my ready money has run low. 
Do you think of anybody that’ll be likely to 
lend us that amount for three months, 
Dave ?” 

But before Dave could reply, Dave’s wife 
spoke. 

“ Father Somers,” she said, “ I can let you 
have the money — not as a loan, but as a 
gift. I have been of so little use to you, 
and have made you so much expense, I shall 
be very, very happy if you will let me do 
this for you.” And rising up, she came and 
laid a little silken purse in Deacon Somers’s 
hands. 

“ But where did you get it, child ?” asked 
the wondering deacon, looking from the ple- 
thoric little purse to her face, which had 
flushed a rosy red. 

“I sold my paintings,” Dave’s wife an- 
swered. “A gentleman happened to see a 
little thing I painted, and he said he knew 
where I could dispose of any quantity of 
such work. And, sure enough, I sold every 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


51 


one of those things I painted when I was 
sick, for good prices. And I decorated 
some plates for a lady, who paid me well for 
it. So I have one hundred and seventy-five 
dollars in that purse, which you are more 
than welcome to.” 

Deacon Somers removed his spectacles 
and mopped them with his silk handker- 
chief. “ I can’t do it, my child,” he said ; “ it 
wouldn’t be right. You must keep your 
own money.” 

“ But I have no use for it,” cried Dave’s 
wife. “ I intended to spend it all in Christ- 
mas gifts for the family, but this is better. 
I have everything I need. All I ask or de- 
sire is to be of some use — and to have you 
all love me,” she added, softly. 

“ A hundred and seventy-five dollars for 
that trash ! Well, the world is full of fools !” 
Mrs. Somers ejaculated, when she was told 
of what had occurred. But she looked at 
Dave’s wife with an expression of surprised 
interest after that, as if it was just dawning 
upon her that one might be of use in the 


52 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


world who could neither cook nor make 
cheese. 

Deacon Somers’s farm boasted a fine stone 
quarry, and he was very busily at work every 
spare moment, quart ying stone for the found- 
ation of a new barn he was to build. One 
day Dave drove to town, ten miles distant, 
with a load of grain for market. It was 
September, and the market had risen during 
the last few days. All the neighboring 
farmers had turned out and hurried their 
grain away. Deacon Somers remained at 
home, quarrying stone. Mrs. Somers rang 
the great bell at noon-time, but be did not 
come. Then she grew alarmed. 

“ Some one must go up to the quarry and 
see if anything has happened,” she said. 
And Dave’s wife was off like a young deer 
before the words were out of her mouth. 

It did not seem three minutes before she 
stood at the door again, with white lips, her 
dark eyes large with fright. “ Father is 
wedged in under a great bowlder,” she said. 
“You and the girl must go to him. Take 
the camphoi and ammonia ; it may sustain 


DAVE’S WIFE. 


53 


his strength until I can bring relief. I am 
going to ride the dappled mare to the vil- 
lage, and rouse the whole neighborhood.” 

“We have no saddle,” gasped Mrs. Som- 
ers ; “ and the mare will break your neck.” 

“ I can ride anything,” Dave’s wife an- 
swered as she sped away. “ It was taught 
me with other useless accomplishments.” 

A moment later she shot by the door, and 
down the street toward the village. She 
had bridled the mare and buckled on a 
blanket and surcingle. She sat like a young 
Indian princess, her face white, her eyes 
large and dark, looking straight ahead, and 
urging the mare to her highest speed. Fas- 
ter, faster she went, until the woods and 
fields seemed flying pictures shooting through 
the air. Half-way to the village, which was 
more than two miles distant, she met Tom 
Burgus, the blacksmith. She reined up the 
mare so suddenly she almost sat her down on 
her haunches. 

“ Deacon Somers has fallen under a bowl 
der in his quarry,” she cried. “ Go to him — 
quick ! Dave is away.” Then she rode on. 


54 


VAVE’S IVJEE. 


At the village she roused half a dozen 
men, and to the strongest and most muscu- 
lar she said : “ Take this mare and put her 
to her highest speed. Tom Burgus is al- 
ready there. Y ou two can lift the bowlder, 
perhaps. I will ride with Dr. Evans.” 

The man mounted the mare, and was off 
like a great bird swooping close to the earth. 
He swept away and out of sight. 

When Dr. Evans reined his reeking horse 
at the quarry, Tom Burgus and Jack Smith, 
who had ridden the mare from the village, 
were propping up the bowlder with iron bars, 
while Mrs. Somers and her help were trying 
to remove the’deacon’s inanimate form. The 
doctor and Dave’s wife sprang to their assist- 
ance. In another moment he was free from 
his perilous position, and Dr. Evans was ap- 
plying restoratives. “ He will live,” he said ; 
“ but in five minutes more, if help had not 
come, he would have been a dead man. It 
is very fortunate you had a swift horse in the 
stable, and a rider who could keep her seat,” 
and he glanced around at Dave’s wife just in 
time to see her fall in a limp heap. 


DAVE'S WIFE. 


55 


Deacon Somers was quite restored to his 
usual health the following morning. “ Dave’s 
wife and the dappled mare saved my life,” 
he said to Deacon Bradlaw, who came to 
call. “ So the boy didn’t make so poor a 
bargain either time, neighbor, as i once 
thought.” 

The deacon recovered rapidly, and just as 
rapidly Dave’s wife lost strength and color. 
She faded before their eyes like some frail 
plant, and at last one day with a tired sigh 
she drifted out into the Great Unknown ; 
and with her went the bud of another life, 
destined never to blossom on earth. 

After they came home from the church- 
yard where they had left her to sleep, Dave 
found the dappled mare cast in her stall : her 
halter strap had become a noose about her 
slender throat. She was quite dead. 

Over the low mound where “ Dave’s wife” 
sleeps the marble mockery of a tall monu- 
ment smiles in irony at those who pause to 
read its flattering inscription. It is so easy 
to praise the dead ! And the memorial win- 
dow sacred to her memory in Somerville 


56 


DAVes WIFE. 


church — a proposition of Deacon Bradlaw’s 
— flushes in crimson shame while suns rise 
and set. 

And a sturdy farm-horse pulls the plough 
through Dave’s stubble field, and Sarah Jane 
drives the work in his kitchen. 


—From Harper’s Bazar, by permistioQ. 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 


57 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 

Little Violet Gray, curled up on the 
lounge in her room, resting after her hard 
day’s work in the ward schools, heard a 
knock at her door, and lazily answered, 
“Come.” She fancied it was Jessie, the 
boarding-mistress’s daughter, whom she often 
helped with her arithmetic lessons in the 
evening. Jessie was overworked and hard 
pressed for time, and it was little chance 
she had for study. During Miss Gray’s 
year in the house she had learned more than 
in all her life before. 

The door opened slowly, but it was not 
Jessie who entered. It was, instead, a lady 
of imposing height and appearance. She 
was elegantly attired, and held herself with 
an air which seemed to say, “ Behold, I 
come !” 

Violet rose with more haste than dignity 
from her reclining posture, and with flushed 


58 


VIOLET’S 'IMA NCI PA TION. 


cheeks stood before her imposing guest. 
“Pray, be seated,” she said, .“and pardon 
me. I fancied it was a little girl who often 
comes in my room at this hour.” 

The imposing presence slowly seated her- 
self, and settled her elegant draperies grace- 
fully. 

“You will pardon the intrusion of a 
stranger, I hope,” she said in measured ac- 
cents and with great deliberation, as if she 
wished her hearer not to lose a syllable of 
her speech, “ and allow me to present my 
card. It may be that my name is not wholly 
unfamiliar to you.” 

Violet took the handsome card and read 
thereon in bold, free letters, “ Mrs. Odessa 
Nottingham Smith.” A flush of pleasure 
rose to her cheeks as she extended her 
hand. “ Do I then find myself honored by 
a visit from the well-known leeturess ?” she 
asked. 

Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith gave a 
very limp hand to the extended one, as she 
replied, “ I am no other than the lecturer 
whose name you seem to be familiar with. 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 


59 


Pardon me for the correction, but, as you 
know perhaps by my lectures, I am in favor 
of equal rights and equal freedom for both 
sexes. Therefore I object to the terms 
doctoress, lecturess, poetess, etc. Those 
who adopt a profession are alike doctors and 
lecturers, irrespective of sex. Sex has noth- 
ing to do with the matter, and should be ig- 
nored so far as the profession goes. Not 
that I want women to lose their individual- 
ity — far from it. No woman need adopt a 
masculine attire or a masculine vice, simply 
because she follows a profession heretofore 
deemed masculine ; but let her sex speak in 
her dress, in her voice, in her sweetness and 
grace of manner, and not in any ‘ ess ' tacked 
upon her professional name.” 

She paused and looked at Violet. “ I 
understand you,” Violet said, smiling, “ and 
will remember your injunction in the future.” 

“And now,” proceeded Mrs. Odessa Not- 
tingham Smith, “ I must proceed to the ob- 
ject of my visit. I am in the city for the 
purpose of forming an association of intel- 
lectual women, a sort of interstate conven- 


6o 


y/OLE T .9 EMANCIPA TION. 


tion, for the purpose of broadening woman’s 
sphere of thought, and widening her range 
of vision, and enlarging her opportunities of 
culture.” 

“ A very excellent undertaking,” com- 
mented Violet, feeling the need of saying 
something appreciative. 

“ So we think who have undertaken it,” 
replied Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith, 
“ Our cities are teeming with girls and 
women, who, like yourself, are possessed of 
much crude talent, but have no opportunity 
to use it, and no real comprehension of their 
own powers. What we want is to bring 
them together, and by the contact of mind 
with mind, and the broader light poured in 
upon them by minds of higher cultivation, 
to break down the social barriers that now 
block their way to fields of greater influence, 
and means of higher culture. We want you 
to attend our meetings, and give us your 
aid.” 

“ But I can do so little,” objected Violet ; 
“ really nothing at all in such a place. I am 
afraid I must do my little part in this world 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 


6i 


very quietly. I fear I am not meant to 
shine in any great assemblage of talent,” 

“That is owing to your cramped mode of 
thought !” responded Mrs. Odessa N. S., 
with a superior smile. “You are used to 
this narrow, contracted mode of existence 
and labor, and you shrink from a larger field. 
You fancy yourself doing your duty when 
you are simply throwing away your talents.” 

Violet flushed and her eyes sparkled. 
“No,” she said, “I am not throwing my 
life or talents away. I am using them daily 
for the benefit of unfolding minds. There is 
no higher, no greater calling than that of an 
instructor of little children. If, to the best 
of my abilities, and according to my highest 
impulses, I lead and direct them, I am not 
throwing my talents away.” 

Mrs. O. N. S. smiled again her superior 
smile, 

“ But if your manner of thought is con- 
tracted, as it must be with your limited ad- 
vantages, and your highest impulses those of 
the ordinary trammeled mind, on which the 
light of emancipation has not yet shone, 


02 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 


then you cannot be doing your whole duly 
by the children. Woman’s mind is full of 
narrow aims and ambitions at the present 
time ; what we want to do is to get upon the 
broader platform and reach a, higher life. A 
few of us have attained it, and we are anx- 
ious to bring others up to our heights, to 
free them from the trammels society and a 
false education have imposed upon them ; to 
teach them now to be as free as their fellow- 
men in their mode of life and their choice of 
a career.” 

“ I am already in favor of a woman’s en- 
larged sphere, and I believe in her right to 
any profession or trade she may choose,” 
answered Violet quietly. “ But I do not 
think we are all fitted for public life.” 

“We are all fitted for something better 
than these surroundings of yours,” said Mrs. 
Odessa Nottingham Smith, as she looked 
about the room with a scarcely concealed 
shudder. “Ah, my child, you were named 
to me as a girl of rare force of character and 
unusual brain. But you are all in embryo 
yet. Your character is unformed, your tastes 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 63 

lack refinement, your mind is uncultivated. 
The time will come, if you respond to the 
call I make upon you to come up higher, 
when you will shiver at the distasteful life 
and surroundings that you have left behind 
you, and regret the wasted talents that were 
thrown away upon unappreciative plebeians. 
I hope you will take your first step upward 
by a daily attendance at our meetings. We 
have arranged the time to accommodate 
those like yourself engaged in teaching, and 
our first meeting will be held in Blank’s 
Hall, the first Monday morning of your 
vacation, two weeks hence. You will have 
an opportunity to meet some of the rarest 
minds in the State, for the most prominent 
of the emancipated sisterhood will be repre- 
sented on this occasion. I shall hope to see 
you there.” 

With a bow and another light hand-clasp, 
Mrs. Nottingham Smith took her de- 
parture. 

Little Violet was strangely absent-minded 
when Jessie presented herself that evening; 
her usual power of concentration, that made 


64 violet; S EMANCIPATION. 

her so successful with each moment’s duty 
heretofore, seemed gone, and she felt rest- 
less and impatient for the child to go. This 
mood did not pass with a night’s sleep, 
either. She carried it into her schoolroom 
the next day, and the next ; and she dwelt 
upon Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith’s 
words and grew to feel that her life was, in- 
deed, a cramped one, full of petty aims. 

“ I am living a dull, narrow, treadmill 
existence,” she said “ and that I have been 
content with it heretofore and thought my- 
self doing my whole duty, only proves how 
dull my finer feelings and aspirations have 
become. I might be filling a higher sphere, 
doing more good, thinking greater thoughts, 
and associating with a better class of people 
if I were only — well — emancipated. I shall 
be glad when vacation comes.” 

Vacation came, and with it the Inter- 
State Association of Emancipated Women. 
Violet was one of the first to enter Blank’s 
Hall on Monday morning. It filled rapidly, 
and such a medley of striking people Violet 
had never seen gathered together before. 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 6 $ 

There were elegant women in long-trained 
dresses, and women with elaborate coiffures, 
and women with hair “ shingled” and parted 
on one side. And all seemed full of busi- 
ness, and were gathered in little “ cliques,” 
and first and foremost, and everywhere pres- 
ent, was Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith. 
She smiled a welcome to Violet, ana intro- 
duced her to Miss Jonas Winters, novelist, 
and the Honorable Mrs. Brown. Violet 
felt herself inclined to laugh at the very odd 
attire of the latter, which was a curious com- 
bination of masculinity and femininity ; but 
her natural refinement, uncultured though it 
was, according to Mrs. O. N. S., forbade 
her doing so. She was somewhat surprised, 
therefore, to hear Mrs. Odessa Nottingham 
Smith remark, as the Hon. Mrs. Brown 
moved away to speak to a new-comer : 

“ What is the necessity of any woman’s 
making such a guy of herself as Mrs. Brown 
does ? She is really a ridiculous figure, is 
she not, in that nondescript suit ?” 

Violet did not answer save to ask the 
name of the lady who had just entered. She 


66 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 


was a very sweet-faced woman, with so kind 
a smile and so gracious a manner, that Vio- 
let felt her heart go out toward her involun- 
tarily. Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith and 
Miss Jonas Winters, novelist, both frowned 
and drew back with sudden hauteur as their 
eyes fell on the newcomer. 

“ Really,” cried Miss Winters, “ I was 
not aware that she was coming. I wonder 
who invited her ?” 

“ Not I,” responded Mrs. Odessa Not- 
tingham Smith. “ I can assure you of that. 
She probably came uninvited. It is like her 
boldness.” 

“ How lovely she is!” cried impolitic Vio- 
let; “please tell me who she is.” 

Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith frowned 
more forbiddingly than ever as she turned to 
answer Violet’s query. 

“That,” she said with cold irony, “is Mrs. 
Burton. It may be you have heard her name 
in connection with a scandal which was in 
every one’s mouth a few years ago. It may 
be you were too young to have heard it. I 
assure you I did not ask her to attend this 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 67 

meeting, and I shall treat her in a way that 
she will not be apt to come again.” 

When the meeting was called to order 
and the preliminaries gone through with, the 
object of the meeting was discussed, and 
those who had papers to read were called 
upon to send in their names and the titles 
of their papers. 

It so happened that Violet was seated 
next to Mrs. Burton, and that lady chanced 
to address her, and they fell into pleasant 
converse. Violet was charmed with her 
sweet voice and her gentle manners. 

“ I cannot associate her with anything 
evil,” she said mentally, “ and I believe she 
is a good, true woman. I don’t see why 
those ladies found it necessary to tell me she 
had been a subject of scandal. There are 
precious few prominent people in the world 
who have not been more or less scandalized 
in some way.” 

Violet was invited by Miss Jonas Win- 
ters, novelist, to dine with her party at the 
hotel. Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith had 
gone to the residence of a personal friend 


68 


VIOLET S EMANCIPATION. 


in the city, and was not one of the party ; as 
a consequence she came under discussion. 

“ How like a general she takes the lead,” 
some one present observed. 

“ Yes, and who would ever have supposed 
she would have developed as she has,” re- 
sponded Miss Jonas Winters, novelist. 
“You know before her marriage she was 
not considered anybody. Her people were 
poor, and I am told quite illiterate. Her 
marriage was a fortunate thing for her. It 
enabled her to step into a position she could 
never have attained alone.” 

The tone was kind, the words full of ap- 
probation of Mrs. Smith’s having made such 
excellent use of her opportunities. Yet all 
the same, Violet knew the motive that 
prompted the remark was an unworthy one. 
It was envy of Mrs. Smith’s foremost place 
in the association, and her power of general- 
ship ; and every woman present made a 
mental note of the fact that Mrs. Odessa 
Nottingham Smith sprang from very low 
family. 

The next day Violet chanced to be near 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 69 

a knot of ladies who were nearly all strangers 
to her. They were discussing a paper which 
was to be read the following morning by 
Mrs. Gordon, a woman of marked beauty 
and brilliancy, who had occupied considera- 
ble time the previous day, and won much 
attention from the reporters who had been 
present by an eloquent and impromptu 
speech. 

“ It seems scarcely desirable that one per- 
son should monopolize so much time,” re- 
marked a lady in Bloomers near Violet. 

“ It is quite probable Mrs. Gordon may 
not be called upon for her paper,” observed 
Miss Jonas Winters, quietly. “ She has done 
her share, I think — we must give all a chance. 
No doubt the paper is excellent, but we can 
not hear all the good things at one session.” 

“ I scarcely see how a woman who de- 
votes so much time to toilettes as does the 
elegant Mrs. Gordon can do justice to an 
elaborate paper,” observed Madam, Bloomer, 
with quiet sarcasm. “ If women talk and 
write on emancipation, I like to see them il- 
lustrate it in their lives.” 


;o 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 


Violet looked for Mrs. Gordon’s paper 
with considerable interest, but it was “ un- 
avoidably crowded out,” so the minutes said, 
though several inferior ones could have been 
spared, and many aimless discussions might 
have been omitted with no detriment to the 
proceedings. But the wire-pullers who had 
resolved that Mrs. Gordon should not dis- 
tinguish herself further, succeeded in keeping 
her paper in the background. 

Mrs. Burton, whose sweet and lovable 
character seemed to breathe in every word 
and act, was by the majority of the ladies 
present treated with cold disdain. Those 
who had not heard the old scandal connected 
with her life, were informed that one existed, 
and that the originators of this association 
“regretted the presence of any person of that 
kind, as they claimed to be a blameless 
body.” 

“ But is not the life of this woman beyond 
reproach now ?” queried one daring dissenter. 
“ Surely, whatever may have been her early 
errors and follies, she cannot be aught but a 
noble woman and wear the face she does ; 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 7 1 

besides, I have heard her highly spoken of 
by her neighbors.” 

“ Oh, yes ; since that old affair she has 
been very exemplary in her conduct — quite 
a model of propriety. But you know we do 
not care to admit a woman to our midst who 
has been so scandalized. We must maintain 
the reputation of the convention.” 

The last meeting of the convention was 
quite informal. Business being disposed of, 
and the session at an end, and the next place 
of meeting fixed upon and the new converts 
added to their ranks, the ladies made them- 
selves generally agreeable, congratulating 
each other upon their separate and united 
successes, and the general uplifting and “cul- 
tivating ” effect of the session. 

Mrs. Odessa Nottingham Smith sought 
out Violet Gray. 

“My dear,” she said, “ I do not see your 
name among our new members. I fear we 
have fixed upon a place of meeting so far 
distant that you will not feel that you can at- 
tend ; but you know we want to give this 
rare opportunity to all alike. I trust, how- 


72 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 


ever, you have derived some benefit this ses* 
sion.” 

“ I have, in one way,” answered Violet, 
frankly. “ I shall more than ever feel content 
in my own little sphere, and never sigh after 
a larger field ; for I find as much that ic noble 
in my narrow life, as much that must be ap- 
preciated by the Great Ruler, and less that 
is unworthy and belittling than I find in 
the lives of many of these emancipated 
women.” 

“ Really !” cried the amazed Odessa ; 
“really. Miss Gray, I must ask you to ex- 
plain so strange an assertion. What have 
you heard at this session of the finest minds 
in two States that can be termed ‘ belittling,’ 
I pray ?” 

“ Gossip and malice,” responded Violet 
quietly ; “just what we are apt to hear where 
any large number of women meet together. 
1 should have been prepared for it at a sew- 
ing-circle or a meeting of society women. 
But I confess I was unprepared to find it in 
this ‘ emancipated ’ congregation of fine 
minds. One of the first things to greet my 


VIOLET’S EMANCIPATION. 


71 


ear was an old, dead and cold scandal, con- 
cerning the most lovable and womanly mem- 
ber before the association. N ext I heard of 
the low origin of one of the prominent mem- 
bers. Then I happened to overhear a few 
wire-pullers plan to keep a brilliant woman 
in the background, and they succeeded. I 
also heard an elegantly attired woman sneer 
at the masculine garb of one of her sister as- 
sociates, and the sister associate in turn con- 
demned the fashionable dress of still another. 
This is not emancipation from woman’s 
trammels — this is not reaching the platform 
men occupy. Men do not meet at conven- 
tions to backbite and criticise, to rake up 
old scandals. They meet to exchange views, 
to combat each other if need be, squarely 
and fairly, but in good open warfare. You 
may succeed in opening the trades and pro- 
lessions to women by your papers and your 
speeches, but you will never succeed in be- 
coming truly emancipated from the worst 
hindrance to woman’s true culture and 
growth, until you rise to the moral height 
that scorns gossip, and puts all scandal, tale- 


74 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 


bearing and personal envy and jealousy 
down in the dust under your feet, where it 
belongs. You will never beeome broad- 
minded, as you desire to be, until you feel 
yourself so strong and safe and sure in your 
own unsullied virtue and moral worth, that 
you are not afraid to meet and exchange 
views with one whose past life may have 
been darkened by a cloud. I do not say, ad- 
mit or countenance untrue woman to your 
midst ; far from it. But I do say, treat 
women like Mrs. Burton with all due kind- 
ness, and encourage them to live the good 
life, and think the noble thoughts they are 
striving to, instead of holding back your gar- 
ments and retailing to every newcomer 
some old tale of error. These are a few of 
the things that impressed me unfavorably, 
with your no doubt at the bottom excellent 
project, Mrs. Smith, and now I shall go back 
to my little round of duties, praying more 
fervently than ever to be kept from all envy- 
ing and striving after vain-glory, and more 
than ever content and satisfied with the work 
given me to do.” 


VIOLET'S EMANCIPATION. 


7S 


“ A strange, crotchety young person,” Mrs. 
Odessa Nottinghim Smith was heard to call 
Miss Violet Gray, in speaking of her. “ She 
seemed to possess latent powers, and an odd 
command of language, which was quite re- 
markable in its way. But there was no cul- 
ture, and really, yes really, her tastes seemed 
distressingly low. No appreciation of higher 
things, you know, and curiously content with 
her common duties. Impossible to emanci- 
pate her.” 

Poor Violet ! 


76 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


A MENTAL CRIME. 

Sitting here to-night, the possessor of 
great wealth, respected and envied by the 
neighboring people, I am yet more wretched 
than any convict behind prison bars. 

For I carry in my breast the knowledge 
of an awful crime. 

I caused the death of three human beings ; 
yet no one on the face of the earth has ever 
suspected me as the author of that terrible 
tragedy. 

Sometimes I think it would relieve th< 
fearful burden on my soul if suspicion diO 
point its finger at me ; and so to-night I 
have resolved to write out the whole story 
just as it occurred ; to paint myself in all 
the hideous colors of the murderer that I am. 

After I am dead, let people read the story 
and bestow upon my memory the scorn it 
deserves. 

I was but twelve years old, and he was 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


77 


fifteen, when my mother married his father, 
and I was taken to the Pines — to this very 
old mansion where I am now sitting — to 
reside ; his father, my stepfather. Colonel 
Monroe, had never seen me until I came 
there to live. 

I had been at boarding school when he 
met, courted and married my mother. They 
went upon quite an extensive tour, return- 
ing to the Pines in June, and then I was 
brought home. How well I remember that 
summer evening ! The grounds were all 
ablaze with roses as I drove up to the 
stately old mansion. Colonel Monroe, my 
mother, and Sinclair Monroe, my stepfather’s 
son, stood on the veranda to welcome me. 

After greeting my mother, she led me to 
Colonel Monroe. 

“ This is your new papa, dear Agnes,” she 
said, “ whom I hope you will love very much ; 
and this is Sinclair, your new brother.” 

Sinclair bowed with a strangely polished 
air for so young a boy, I thought, and I 
smiled. I noticed that his face was very 
handsome and proud, and almost cold, until 


78 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


he smiled. Then it was radiant as the June 
day itself. Colonel Monroe took my hand 
and leaned down and scrutinized my face. 

“ Bless my stars !” he cried out in a hearty 
voice, “ what a beauty we have here ! A per- 
fect gypsy queen ! Come, Sinclair, I should 
think you would like the chance to kiss such 
a cheek as that.” 

Sinclair blushed slightly, and came for- 
ward and shook hands with me then, but he 
did not kiss me. As we stood there facing 
each other. Colonel Monroe placed a hand 
on either head. “ A handsome couple, 
Sybyl,” he said, addressing my mother; “a 
handsome couple, surely. I think we will 
have to plan to keep them always with us. 
1 should like to see them man and wife 
some day.” 

“And so, indeed, would I,” my mother 
answered, smiling, “ but it is early to think 
of that. Colonel. Let time do its own 
work.” Then she led me away to my room. 

From that time I began to think of 
myself as Sinclair Monroe’s wife. We 
speak idle words in the presence of children, 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


79 


and forget them, but the seed takes root 
in the young mind and silently grows into 
a harvest for good or evil. 

I was to remain at the Pines to receive 
my education from private teachers. Sin- 
clair was only home for his vacation, and in 
September he returned to college. We 
were playmates and comrades all through 
the long, bright summer. We used to ride 
two little ponies which his father had pre- 
sented us with soon after my arrival, and 
one day Sinclair showed me the broad acres 
of his estate — the one which would be his 
when he attained his majority. “ I shall build 
a splendid house there,” he said, pointing 
to a noble eminence which overlooked the 
city, just below us, “ a house larger, oh, ten 
times larger than the Pines, and I shall live 
there in the summer, and go to the city in 
the winter, I hate the country in the win- 
ter,” 

As we rode back I revelled in dreams of 
the future, when I should reign a queen over 
that splendid mansion. 

As years passed on the idea strengthened 


8o 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


in my mind. Sinclair and I were always to- 
gether when he was at home. He made me 
his confidante in all his college escapades, 
and we corresponded constantly. To be 
sure, he always addressed me as “ Sis,” an 
abbreviation of sister, I suppose ; and he 
never kissed me in his life, save when he 
came home or upon his departure. Yet I 
always thought of him as my future husband, 
and I planned my life accordingly. 

My mother was a poor widow when Col. 
Monroe married her. She had barely means 
enough to eke out our expenses, but she was 
very handsome and fascinating. She had 
what people called “ a way with men” that 
was irresistible. She fostered the idea that 
I was to be Sinclair’s wife. One day she 
and I were driving together about the es- 
tates, and she turned to me and smiled and 
said : 

“ How strange it is, ma petite, that you 
and I, two penniless creatures that we were 
a few years ago, will one day possess both 
these splendid estates for our very own. 
It is like a fairy story. Ah ! say what they 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


Si 

will — the moralists and preachers — a hand- 
some face and a little tact are the most price- 
less gifts a woman can possess. I am so 
thankful dear, that you are handsome.” 

I was seventeen when she said that, and I 
went home and looked at myself carefully in 
the mirror. Y es, I was handsome ; my eyes 
were large and black, my complexion rich 
and clear, my features perfectly regular. 

I turned away smiling and satisfied. 

Sinclair came home soon afterward to re- 
main : at least, he had finished his college 
course, graduating with honors. 

He was very handsome, and my heart 
throbbed with pride and joy as I looked 
upon him. 

Surely every good gift in life was mine. 

Sinclair remained at home a year. We 
were of course thrown constantly together, 
and he was the same frank comrade as of 
old, yet he spoke no word of love. I grew 
restive and impatient for matters to be set- 
tled. I was at the age when every girl longs 
for a lover. I wanted to be loved — I wanted 
to be betrothed. I had thought it all out 


82 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


many times ; how after the betrothal my 
mother would give a large ball, and how re- 
splendent I would shine in beautiful jewels 
and rich robes. For always in my thoughts 
of love worldly considerations were mingled. 

I should never have loved Sinclair Monroe 
if he had been powr and of low birth. My 
pride was inborn, and constant cultivation 
rendered it one of the strongest elements of 
my nature. 

After a year spent at home, Sinclair went 
abroad. He went without speaking his love, 
or asking any promise of me. 

I was bitterly disappointed, and so was my 
mother. 

“ But let him sow his wild oats,” she said : 
“ he will come home all the more inclined to 
settle down.” 

He was gone two years. During those 
years I went much into society and became 
quite a belle, and received one offer of mar- 
riage. I declined it proudly. The man was 
in no way the equal of Sinclair ; and besides 
1 felt myself to belong to Sinclair. I as 
mucn as mnmarea tnis to my suitor, wnen 


A MENTAL CRIME. 83 

he would have persisted in his atten- 
tions. 

When Sinclair returned he seemed older 
and more serious in manner, and he went 
at work at once to lay out the grounds on 
his estate and beautify them, My heart 
swelled full of hope. 

Were my early dreams to be realized? 

Then suddenly my mother died. 

Plunged into deep mourning, I did not 
think it strange that no words of love .should 
pass his lips during the next half yeai At 
the end of that time he again absented him- 
self for several months. 

When he returned, he called me asidf <?ne 
day, saying he had something to tell me. 

“ Perhaps I ought not to say it within a 
year after your great loss,” he began, “and 
yet I believe what I have to say will result 
in greater happiness to us all. I have long 
had it in my mind.” 

I felt my heart trembling in my breast 
like a frightened bird. At last, at last ! 
Was he about to say the words I had waited 
so loi»g to hear ? Then he continued: “1 


84 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


am going to be married next month, Agnes. 
I met my bride while I was traveling abroad. 
She is an American. She was also traveling 
with her parents. She is a lovely girl, and 
she will brighten up the old house for us all. 
I thought of building before I married, but 
father wants me to remain here, at least for 
a year or two. And I would like to have 
my bride plan her own home when I do 
build. I hope you will love her, Agnes. I 
am sure you cannot help it.” 

How I ever managed to control my awful 
mortification, my surprise and my anger, I 
do not know. It was all so sudden, so un- 
expected, like a blow in the dark. I brought 
all my pride to bear upon my emotions, and 
I congratulated him with seeming warmth, 
but I felt as if a new being took possession 
of my body from that hour. I had always 
been a selfish girl, inclined to be mercenary 
and exacting. Now within my breast awoke 
a demon of jealousy and spite that made my 
life wretched. It seemed to me that I had 
opened the door to a flock of evil spirits in 
my heart when love and hope flew out. 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


85 


About two months later Sinclair brought 
home his bride. I felt a malicious gratifica- 
tion as I looked at her and saw that she was 
not as handsome as 1. Yet she was what 
people generally call “ sweet looking,” or 
" lovely,” and I have noticed that those 
women really win more hearts in this world 
than beauties do. 

She was very affectionate by nature, and 
cuddled up to me like a winsome child at 
first; but I think she felt the hatred in my 
heart, hard as I tried to mask it, for after a 
time she ceased to make her affectionate 
overtures to me, and became more quiet and 
reserved. 

Colonel Monroe was completely carried 
away with her sweet, kittenish manners, and 
I could see every day that she was winding 
herself more closely about his heart. He 
praised her constantly when he and I were 
alone, and I used to sit more and more by 
myself — it was such torture to hear his 
praises. As for Sinclair, he idolized her. I 
had never in my most romantic dreams im- 
agined such a love as he gave to her. 


86 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


Everything she did or said, every garment 
she wore, was perfect in his eyes ; and he 
could not refrain from talking of her wonder- 
ful virtues to me. 

I had to listen and endure it, although it 
was slow toiture. 

I felt a perfect hell in my breast often as I 
listened. 

And yet in my own heart I had to confess 
that Millicent — that washer name — deserved 
all the praise she received. 

She was constantly thoughtful for every 
one about her, and seemed to live only to 
make others happy. I never saw so unsel- 
fish a nature as hers. At first she used to 
make me her confidante, and tell me of her 
happiness in Sinclair’s love, and dwell upon 
his virtues and goodness. But after a time 
she ceased that, too. I think she intuitively 
felt that I did not enjoy her confidence, and 
she drew more within herself. 

As for myself, I used to actually hope and 
pray for some unhappiness to come between 
their hearts. I believe now that I did admit 


i 


A MENTAL CRIME. 87 

an evil spirit to my breast, who constantly 
whispered devilish ideas in my ear. 

Finally Sinclair began to build. Millicent 
was radiant with delight; and they were con- 
stantly making plans and talking of the ne\;;^ 
home, and Sinclair would ask me every now 
and then for a suggestion, but I always had 
some excuse to take me away. 

It fairly maddened me to see her and hear 
her planning the house, that ever since my 
twelfth year I had believed would be my 
own. 

One day we stood before a tall mirror tO’ 
gether — quite by accident. I was struck by 
the difference in our faces. We were just of 
an age, but my selfish, mercenary, jealous 
and envious feelings had marred my face, until 
I looked almost ten years her senior. N ature 
had made me much the handsomer of the two, 
and yet I could see that she possessed tenfold 
the attractions I did at that time. 

This only increased my hatred, and if I 
could have marred her features then and 
there with some terrible scar, I would have 
done it. Always in presence of Sinclair I 


88 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


tried to appear kind and cordial, for I did not 
want him to read my mortified pride and 
wounded love, though now my love for him 
had turned into dislike. Since he belonged 
#6 her he was hateful in my sight. 

But when I was alone with her I could 
not refrain sometimes from disagreeable and 
cutting speeches, which I knew hurt and 
wounded her. She was too noble to resent 
them, or to reply, but she shrank from me 
more and more. They were little, worthless 
remarks ; yet a philosopher will feel the prick 
of a pin or the bite of a mosquito, insignifi- 
cant as the pin and the insect are. In return 
she had always some pleasant speech or 
sweet word of praise to give me. I do not 
remember that she ever said an unkind word 
to me. Often I hated and despised myself 
for my feelings toward her ; yet they had 
gone down so deep in my soul I could not 
root them out, and every day more and more 
I grew to think of her as an interloper — one 
who had thrust herself into the place which 
belonged to me. More and more I brooded 


A MENTAL CRIME. 89 

over the thought. “ If she were not here — 
if only all this were mine !” 

By and by a new cause of misery to me 
was added. There was to be ere many 
months passed another tie to bind her to 
Sinclair and Colonel Monroe. 

When I realized this I felt a maddening 
fury take possession of me. 

Little by little, unconsciously yet surely 
by the force of her own worth and her many 
virtues, she had crowded me out of the place 
I had grown to think was my own. 

My stepfather worshiped her ; Sinclair 
loved her to idolatry ; and even the serv^ants 
and the neighboring people could talk of 
nothing but “sweet Lady Millicent.” I was 
thrust aside, slighted, forgotten. Yet it was 
my own fault. Nobody can help loving a 
sweet, smiling, unselfish and amiable person 
in preference to a black-browed, frowning, 
cold, selfish being. I had not made myself 
worthy of love, and I hated her because she 
had, and now she was to bestow a last price- 
less blessing upon the race, a blessing which 


90 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


I had been denied the right of bestow- 
ing. 

It would be her child, not mine, who bore 
the family name, who inherited the family 
estates. 

How often I had in fancy seen my chil- 
dren playing on those noble lawns. Such a 
terrible rage filled my soul that I was almost 
like one mad. 

And yet I was not mad. I do not lay any 
claim to that excuse. It was only the in- 
sanity of a jealous brain and a selfish, en- 
vious heart. 

One evening, just in the gloaming, I walked 
down the garden toward a rustic seat near a 
large rose tree. In order to reach the seat 
I had to descend several steps. They were 
flat steps — cut from quarry stone, and 
brought and laid there. As I placed my 
foot on the second stair it tottered and tipped 
under my weight. There had been a severe 
storm recently, and the earth had washed 
away, leaving no foundation for the slab to 
rest ‘upon. I fell as the step gave way be 
neath me and bruised my knee. 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


91 

“ I must tell John about this to-night,” I 
thought, “ and he must attend to it to-mor- 
row. It’s a dangerous place.” 

I sat down on the rustic bench. I had 
scarcely seated myself when I saw Millicent 
approaching with her basket and scissors ; 
she was coming to gather roses to decorate 
the house. 

As she neared the steps I was on the 
point of calling out to her to be careful, 
when the devil in my heart bade me be 
silent. 

“ Let her look out for herself,” he whis- 
pered. “It is none of your business. If 
you had not come down here you would not 
be responsible for what happened to her, and 
she cannot expect you to follow her about to 
guard her from danger.” 

While the evil spirit whispered, it all hap- 
pened. 

She stepped upon the treacherous stone, it 
tipped under her weight and precipitated hei 
forward upon her face. I ran to assist her 
(o her feet, now thoroughly frightened and 


92 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


horrified at my own wickedness, but she did 
not seem badly hurt, only slightly bruised. 

“ That is a dangerous place,” she said ; 
“John must attend to it to-morrow.” 

Even then at that moment it made me 
angry to hear her speak in such a tone of 
command concerning the premises and the 
servants. 

That night the household was alarmed by 
the sudden illness of Lady Millicent. At 
dawn, in spite of the best medical skill, she 
lay dead, with her tiny dead infant upon her 
breast. 

I was horrified at the result of my wicked 
silence. Yet the full punishment came later 
in the day. 

During the afternoon the sharp report of 
a pistol sounded through the Pines. It 
came from the room where Lady Millicent 
and her babe lay robed for burial. Rushing 
thither we saw Sinclair, lying over the casket 
which contained the two silent forms. The 
pistol which had taken his life was still 
smoking in his hand. 

Colonel Monroe followed them all to the 


A MENTAL CRIME. 


93 


grave before two years passed. By his will 
I was lefted heiress of all those fine domains 
of both estates and of the Pines. My avarice 
was gratified. There was no other woman 
left to awaken my jealous feelings, or to 
mock me with her happiness. 

And yet, I say again, no prison holds sc* 
wretched a creature as I am, and ever must 
be. The burden of my crime grows heavier 
and heavier as the years go by. 

No living being suspects my guilt ; but 
the dead know it, and often in the night 
they come close about me, accusing me of 
my sin. 

I abhor life, yet I dread death, for then I 
must meet them face to face, with no veil 
between. 

It would have been a less cruel punish' 
ment to have expiated my crime upon the 
scaffold. 

To receive sympathy when you know you 
deserve punishment, to be respected when 
you know you should be abhorred, is the 
most awful fate that can befall a crime-bur- 
dened soul. 


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